


Arvel the Swift Saves the World

by Dunkthebard



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe, Breakfast, Character Death, Character Development, Daedric Artifacts (Elder Scrolls), Dovahzul (Elder Scrolls), Elder Scrolls Lore, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Other, Redemption, Retcon Timeline, Slow Burn, Thu'um (Elder Scrolls), Unlikely Hero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunkthebard/pseuds/Dunkthebard
Summary: He was not chosen by the Gods, he is just who remains. The Last Dragonborn is dead and no one is left to stop Alduin and his consumption of the world. Landfall is here. The dreamer is finally becoming awake. It is up to Arvel the Swift, the down on his luck thief of Bleak Falls Barrow, to somehow find a way to save the world. He and his friends must defeat Alduin without destiny on their side. Normal people must do the work of demigods and the divines. The task is supposed to be impossible, but the truth isn't always easy to see.This story includes original characters and existing cannon characters from Skyrim, Oblivion, and Morrowind. It is a complete retcon of the story to defeat Alduin. Skyrim and its story are fundamentally changed without the presence of the prophesied hero. This is my project during quarantine, so hopefully this will be updated a lot.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	1. Ysmir

_When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world_

_When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped_

_When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles_

_When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls_

_When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding_

_The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn._

The wheels of the horse driven carriage turned onward as the Last Dragonborn slowly stirred from long needed rest. Holdnir’s weary eyes adjusted to the glare of the morning sun flirting through the trees above him. “The trees!” he thought, their leaves and snow covered branches were faintly familiar from his childhood. He was still in the Northern realm in which he was born. 

He had gone through so much in the past few weeks, from his escape from the Imperial Prison a fortnight ago to his capture in the frozen tunnels of the Serpent’s Trail under the Pale Pass. He had always wanted to return to Skyrim, but admittedly, not like this. Despite his hand’s being bound, he had passed out and slept gloriously. He hadn’t slept truly in many days before this. His renewed mind turned to a fellow Nord, another prisoner in the cart. 

The man lit up at the sight of Holdnir’s face. “Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." He said. The man looked like a brave warrior, but Holdnir could see the youth that pierced through his eyes. His clothes bore the emblem of the Stormcloak rebels. Holdnir wondered whether the Imperial Legionnaire driving the cart thought he was a rebel too. He was no rebel, he was just an escaped convict, there was a huge difference. 

The thief next to the rebel in the cart spoke in a nervous, half whisper. “Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.” The Thief turned to Holdnir. “You there... You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Holdnir agreed with the Thief’s words. He sympathized with the Stormcloak’s extreme hatred for the Thalmor, but the “Skyrim for the Nords!” rhetoric rang hollow with him. He had lived in the Imperial City for most of his life, and begrudgingly, he considered it his home. If it was Skyrim for the Nords, then it would also be Cyrodiil for the Imperials, and then it would be nowhere for Holdnir. He did not want to die with these rebels.

He turned his head to the other man in the cart. He was a large and proud looking Nord, with a dark cloak over his shoulders and a gag in his mouth. 

The horse thief noticed Holdnir’s curious gaze. “And what's wrong with him, huh?" He asked the Stormcloak. 

"Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

The man with the gag growled through his restraints. 

The Thief’s eyes widened. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

The young stormcloak shifted in his seat and tried to look stoic. “I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." Holdnir had seen that same look when he fought to protect his home during the sacking of the Imperial City. At the age of 14 he had killed Dominion soldiers with his bare hands, but he failed to stop Thalmor from burning his home. He knew the fear in the stormcloak’s eyes. They were going to their execution. 

The Thief started to tremble. “No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening."

Holdnir sighed and leaned back in the cart. His bad luck had finally dealt the final blow, he was going to die with these rebels. 

The wagon train of prisoners passed under the walls of Helgen, a small fortified town with a large Imperial garrison in the southern mountains of Skyrim. The young stormcloak rebel spoke solemnly. He was trying to accept his death. “Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Holdnir knew the man was going to die far too young. “I know what you mean, kinsman.”

The rebel nodded. 

Holdnir could tell he was a good man, he had just been told false truths about the state of the world. 

The carts stopped at the base of a large stone tower in the town square. The Imperial soldiers lined them up for death like they were cattle. As Holdnir suspected, the legionnaires did not spare him and the thief just because they were unaffiliated. The Imperials weren’t taking any chances. The horse thief, a man by the name of Lokir, tried to run when they called his name. Archers in the tower killed him with a volley. The rebel, a man by the name of Ralof, did not run. He tried to look brave as he got in line to the headsman’s block, but now he was trembling too. Ulfric Stormcloak, the claimant to the throne of Skyrim, marched to his place in the line like he was made of stone. 

Then, as the Imperials were about to call Holdnir to get in line, a distant roar echoed through the mountains around them. Holdnir swore he had heard that sound before, but he couldn’t place it. The soldiers ignored it and called Holdnir again, and he got in line. He was ahead of Ulfric Stormcloak and Ralof. He guessed the Legionaries were saving the true rebels for the end. Perhaps they wanted Ulfric to see all of his men killed in front of him before he died. 

Still, the headsman’s axe had gone through the heads of several rebels before they reached Holdnir. One of the Imperial soldiers almost looked sorry as they locked eyes on his way to block. Holdnir made sure the man never forgot his stare. 

He settled his bare neck on the blood soaked block and heard the roar once more, far louder this time. The Imperial soldiers surrounding the square started to run about and draw their weapons. They looked desperately around in the sky for the source of the sound, but heavy clouds blocked their sight. 

The headsman did not mind. He lifted his heavy axe of death into the air. Holdnir closed his eyes in silent prayer. He blocked out his mind and did not hear a sound. 

But when he opened his eyes again, the axe fell to the ground in front of him. The headsman followed shortly after with a large rock violently lodged in his skull. Holdnir hadn’t heard the third roar of the dragon as it lept out from the clouds. The terrifying beast slammed into the top of the tower above him, raining down debris on the Imperial legionaries. From its high perch, the black winged monster turned its massive head to face Holdnir, still lying on the executioner's block. 

The dragon looked at him with rage burning in its fiery eyes. Holdnir looked back at the beast and knew that he had seen it before. It was the monster of his dreams. 

The dragon spoke in a voice that tore at the seams of the world. “Ysmir! Zu’u Fus Hi-Wah-Faal Mey Lein!” The beast screamed in a doom heralding tongue that Holdnir did not know. But he did know one word: Ysmir. 

Holdnir sat there, frozen. The beast opened its gaping maw and unleashed a nightmare. A wave of red fury poured out and drowned the square. 

Ralof, the rebel, ran as fast as he could away from the Imperials and the bloodthirsty dragon. He bolted as soon as the soldiers became distracted. He grabbed his liege, Ulfric Stormcloak, and pulled him away from their captors. 

Something stopped him though. He had to know what happened to his kinsman in the cart. He quickly looked back at the devastation of Helgen. 

He saw Ysmir, the Last Dragonborn, turned to dust by flame.


	2. Stuck in a Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel the Swift is trapped in the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow and must find a way out before he is devoured by a giant frostbite spider. Help comes from an unlikely source as Arvel gets more and more desperate.

The old ruin creaked and groaned with deadly intent. Deep in the bowels of Bleak Falls Barrow, an ancient tomb of the Nords of Skyrim, Arvel the Swift struggled to free himself from a spider’s web. The sound of him struggling with his binds echoed throughout the dusty antechamber. 

Distantly he heard something that almost sounded like footsteps. He let out a cry. “Is... is someone coming? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?” There was no response except a subtle, slimy movement in the black abyss above him. Arvel looked up as much as the web would allow him, but he didn’t need to see to know the sound’s source. He could hear the tap of many legs along the ceiling of the chamber. A massive frostbite spider was done licking its wounds and was going to make a meal out of him. 

Arvel desperately writhed in the web, fruitlessly trying to escape the tightly wound strings. He let out another shout, hoping against reason his fellow looters would come to his aid. “I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help!” The small golden dragon claw clanked uselessly against his leg. Still there was no response to his cries for help. The draugr must have gotten to them, he thought, or perhaps they were still angry he left them behind. 

The horrifying spider above finally came into view. It clicked its menacing fangs together and gave Arvel a hungry look through its many eyes. The beast’s head was as big as his entire body. 

“Don't let it get me! Help!” He screamed. He had never been squeamish about the monsters living in old tombs, but he was terrified of spiders. The beast moved closer and closer to him and drops of slime began to fall on his head. It was too late, he was going to have to save himself. 

Arvel prayed to his Ancestors in the way only Dunmer knew how. He feverishly chanted the deeds and tales of his family out loud into the gloom. He only barely remembered the words. He hadn’t prayed properly in so many years that he doubted anyone would listen to him, but he had no other options. 

The ghosts of his ancestors would have to excuse the fact that he was looting a tomb and disturbing the dead. Arvel hoped that since it was a Nordic tomb and not Dunmer, he was fine. 

The final tale was reaching its end as the spider lunged at him, ready to deal the killing blow. “Please Azura! Sing me the song of my ancestor, the willy liar Savnos! He tricked the Dwarves of Skyrim into killing each other instead of him!” Arvel cried. 

His mind went dark. In a limitless void he laid flat on his back, injured and unable to stand. Time seemed to slow down and Arvel rested there for what felt like hours. His body acted like a massive weight was pinning him to the ground. Perhaps this is what death feels like, he wondered. He did not blame his ancestors for ignoring his call. 

Suddenly he was not alone. In his greatest moment of doubt and anguish, a Dunmer man appeared standing above him. He had a bold yellow beard and a bald head. His elven ears were as sharp as a dagger and pierced with many jewels. His eyes were the color of fire but they were kind. He was dressed in the traditional armor of Arvel’s home. The bonemold plate covered his entire frame except his head. Despite the weight of the garb, the man moved like a dancer as he knelt beside Arvel.

“The rest of the family will despise me for this, but you can’t die in this forgotten tomb.  _ Rise _ .” He said, reaching out a helping hand. The weight was gone as Arvel was raised back up from the void. 

Just as the spider was about to strike him an eruption of flame exploded from Arvel’s body, blinding the room and sending the spider flying across the chamber. The web that held Arvel up burned away immediately and the force of the blast sent him flying down a hall out of the chamber. He slammed into the dusty stone wall and collapsed to the floor. 

He was unable to get up for a long while, but he knew that somehow, his prayer had worked. All he could focus on for a few moments was trying to breathe again after having the air shot out from him. When his sight finally returned he could see the spider getting back up. He could still see through the hall the spider and its terrifying lair. 

The hall was narrow but Arvel wasn’t taking any chances, he ran as fast as he could deeper into the tomb and away from the monster. Quickly the sounds of the spider were long gone and he had navigated deeper into the ruins where the massive beast could not follow, he hadn’t earned the name ‘the swift’ for nothing. 


	3. The Hall of Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel finds the treasure of Bleak Falls Barrow and steals something back from the Nords.

Finally, Arvel the swift would have his prize. His light feet and quickly moving legs carried him through the tomb of Bleak Falls Barrow. The Draugr, nightmarish walking corpses that often plagued Nordic Ruins, were easy to sneak around and avoid. In the off chance one would notice him, ghostly blue eyes would flare and Arvel would run back into the shadows. No corpse walker could outrun Arvel the swift. 

After sneaking through the dark gloom of the barrow and avoiding the shallow graves of the ancient Nords, Arvel reached a large hall with many runes and carvings on either side. Images of Nord heroes and Gods were littered across the walls. An image of a woman dressed as a hawk seemed to shift and twist in the faint light of Arvel’s torch. She was above all the others and had a mighty host of woodland animals and beasts at her command. 

“Ah, so this is it. The Hall of Stories.” Arvel spoke to himself triumphantly in the dusty room. At the end of the hall stood the puzzle door, with 3 rings of iron around a keyhole in the shape of a dragon claw, just as he expected. He was swallowed up by excitement. The power and treasure of Bleak Falls Barrow, untouched for thousands of years, was on the other side of that door. 

Arvel pulled out the golden claw. He held the puzzle’s key like it was an oasis in the desert. Just like he had heard in the old Nordic legends, the answer to the puzzle was in the palm of his hands. The combination of ancient symbols to open the door were carved into the palm of the claw. With a deafening crack the puzzle door twisted open and slowly retreated into the floor. 

“Let’s see what power and riches these ice-veined Nords left in here.” He said out loud, drawing his sword and walking confidently into the final chamber of the barrow. He felt a mix of anticipation and contempt, a perilous brew. 

After so many years of living in Skyrim, Arvel had gotten used to being a second class citizen below the Nords. He had lived for a time in the Grey Quarter of Windhelm, where the supposedly heroic and honorable Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak treated the Dunmer refugees like dirt. His parents had died of the flu in the cramped slums of Windhelm in their first year living there after they fled Morrowind. It was a sickness Ulfric could have rallied his Nordic healers to cure. Instead, the Jarl didn’t lift a finger to help. It felt damn good to finally be taking something back from the children of Skyrim. 

The innermost chamber of Bleak Falls Barrow was astoundingly beautiful, as if Kynareth herself had blessed the place. The barrow had opened up into a massive cave. A peaceful creek of clear blue water ran around a raised platform, holding a final sarcophagus and a massive carved wall with a statue of a dragon's head at its peak. A quickly flowing waterfall from the top of the cave ran behind the wall. Arvel then spied what he desperately wished to see, a beautifully engraved chest, no doubt with many treasures inside. 

As Arvel began to sneak his way to the chest, wary to not wake the draugr inside the coffin, the wall began to … chant. It made Arvel jump in surprise. It sounded like all of the sudden a full choir of people had begun to sing. The words were in an ancient tongue that Arvel had never heard before. Now with a closer look at the wall he could see many runes and words carved all along its length. The words almost seemed to be alive and singing with throats of their own. One of the words started to glow with a blue haze, but then subsided back into the ranks with the others, as if it had crept out to look at him and then retreated back. 

Arvel then realized that this chanting was probably going to blow his cover. As if on cue when he had that thought, the heavy lid of the coffin behind him flew open, and a grim Draugr clad in rotting armor began to crawl out. Even with his quick feet, Arvel would not be able to reach the chest and dash out of the way before the corpse walker would catch him. He held his sword up and prepared to fight this monster.

Arvel the Swift, willy and cunning Dunmer thief, would not let any Nord come between him and his prize, living or dead. He rushed over and stabbed his sword into the Draugr before it could properly get out of the coffin. The corpse didn’t even register the blow as the blade went straight through its chest and out the other end. Arvel couldn’t draw his weapon back out of the rotting body before the zombie brought down its own sword, nearly cutting off Arvel’s hand. 

The thief quickly slapped his hand back away from the blow. Still, he could not evade the Draugr’s heavy strike with its other arm. The corpse swatted Arvel away like he was a rodent, flinging him back to the base of the chanting wall with superhuman strength. Arvel rose from the cold stone weaponless, save the dagger in his boot. 

Before Arvel could think of a counterattack, the corpse ran over and knocked him back to the ground. He looked up, breathless, as the Draugr lifted its ancient blade over its head and plunged it down. He had only a moment to respond. 

Arvel remembered his ancestor’s words. He could not die in this forgotten tomb. At the last possible second he rolled on his side and grabbed hold of the corpse’s arm. He lunged up and in one fluid motion drew his dagger and planted it in the Draugr’s stark blue eye. The ancient Nord screamed and collapsed to the ground. Slowly, its guttural death cries smoothed. The Draugr’s voice joined the chanting of the wall while the body stayed motionless. 

Arvel belted out a cry of triumph. He had defended himself against all the tomb had to offer and now would capture its wealth. But when he opened the chest, it did not radiate with a golden hue like he had hoped. The sole object inside was a large stone tablet, carved with a dragon’s head and an engraved map of Skyrim below it with many dots and markings.

“What in Oblivion is this supposed to be?” Arvel was sorely disappointed. He wanted riches, powerful magic, or anything else he could sell for a quick price in the black markets of Riften. Where was he going to sell this? Still, he shoved it in his bag.

The chanting wall began to grow louder and the defeated Draugr started to twitch on the ground. Arvel knew it was his cue to leave this disappointing tomb, but he needed more. Before the corpse walker could resume its vigilant watch over the wall, Arvel snatched up its sword. As he picked up the blade he noticed a deadly cold chill come from its sharp edge. He was glad he hadn’t been pierced by the weapon. It certainly was better than his old rusty sword, stolen from a bandit in the wilds of Eastmarch.

Arvel escaped through a side passage in the cave. After a quick walk in its dark depths, he saw a light up ahead. He escaped through the cave mouth to the surface world. He was on a ridge above the Falkreath forest. It was midday and the wind heralded clear blue skies. The trees were as green as morning and grew tall among the massive mountains. 

Arvel rested for a while on the rocks, disappointed at his lack of treasure but glad to see the sun again. He hadn’t seen the sun for many weeks when his family desperately journeyed west to escape Morrowind during the Red Year. He would never forget it. The ash clouds from Red Mountain had blocked out all light and hope. He knew more than anyone how to appreciate the sun and clear day. The clear air softly kissed him and he closed his eyes for a reprieve. 

His rest was interrupted by a familiar smell. Arvel caught the scent of ash and smoke, fire and death. He opened his eyes to see a dark cloud journeying over the mountains. A trail of black smoke rose from the ruin of Helgen. 


	4. Here Lie Our Fallen Lords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel travels to Whiterun and manages to sell off the Dragonstone for a good price. He makes some unexpected friends along the way and muses about the spiritual meaning of smoke, fire, and ash.

Back in the twilight of his memory, in another life long before this, Arvel remembered when rising smoke clouds meant the loving cradle of home. He was drawn to smoke, fire, and ash like it was fresh fruit, an old friend, and a warm sunrise. The rising smoke was the center of Morrowind, the sacred Red Mountain. The ash, dirt, and water mixed to become fertile soil. Those holy ashen mounds where old ancestors would return. Dunmer came from ash and returned to it upon their death.

But the Red Year proved the rising smoke could destroy everything. Arvel remembered coughing so much from the ash in his lungs he could hardly breathe. His parents often had to carry him because he didn’t get enough air and food to power his little legs. As he grew up he could never escape that cough. He had a dark and gravel filled voice, even for a Dunmer, and was prone to coughing fits from time to time. 

He could smell the burning wood and thatch on the wind, the smoke was from a town ablaze. Arvel wondered what caused the destruction. Perhaps Skyrim’s Civil War had finally exploded into total war, where even civilians were not safe. Perhaps Ulfric Stormcloak had decided to burn down a whole town just for the sake of it. Arvel cared little for the war of the Nordic homeland, save for the times when his fellow Dunmer were caught in the crossfire. 

The smoke told Arvel which way  _ not  _ to go. He was not going to examine the scene of destruction any closer. The smoke was coming from the mountains in the south. He would follow the river out of the forest and into the plains of Whiterun to the north. He climbed down the ridge that guarded the cavernous exit of Bleak Falls Barrow with his new ancient blade and the strange stone tablet he found stuffed in his pack. 

Around nightfall he arrived at the gates of Whiterun, weary and in desperate need of a real bed. Still, he would have ventured onward and slept in the wilds to avoid the Nords, but he was so hungry that he could barely stand. He would take his chances with going to the Inn. Arvel took a deep breath and prepared to endure suspicious looks, insults, and worse from the locals. 

As he approached the gates a Nord guard stopped him in his tracks. Arvel was unsurprised. Then the guard said something that Arvel never imagined he would ever hear. The words broke upon his elven ears like he was fundamentally not supposed to hear them. 

“Halt! City’s closed with the Dragons about. Official business only.” 

“Shit!” Arvel said under his breath. Dragons? Was the guard just messing with him? He looked deadly serious, and Nords were terrible at lying, at least among the ones he’d met. 

“What’s that?” The guard asked, furrowing his heavy brow. 

_**“AHHHHHHHHHEHJJECH!”**_ Arvel cleared his throat, the coarse sound was so loud and disturbing it gave him enough time to come up with a plan. “I come with news of the dragons!” 

The guard crossed his arms. “Oh really? And what news would that be?” 

“Helgen was destroyed by a dragon! I just escaped from the south!” Arvel bullshitted every word, but the best lies come from truth. He guessed the town he saw burning was Helgen, from the direction the smoke rose and his embarrassingly basic understanding of Skyrim’s settlements. “You’ve got to send men to Riverwood! They’re right in the dragon’s path!” Arvel added some frosting on the cake to make it more believable. 

“By the Gods, it's true then! We had heard rumors but I prayed they were false. You better get on in right away! Head on over to the Bannered Mare for food and rest. It’s just at the end of the main street, straight ahead.” The guard departed and opened the gate. 

Arvel let out a deep sigh of relief when he was safely on the other side of the wooden doors and out of earshot from the guards. He had always been good at bullshitting his way out of trouble, but he had never done it like  _ that  _ before. He usually didn’t have to do it while also absorbing potentially world changing information. A dragon? The Nord must have been misinformed, or just a fool. He was probably an idiot, Arvel decided. 

The Dunmer thief and liar opened the door to the Bannered Mare. It had a dying fire in the middle of the room. The few Nords still occupying the tavern this late at night were passed out drunk. A surprisingly kind innkeeper gave him a cheap room and some leftover bread and meat for a cheap sum of septims. Still, Arvel had very little left in his coin purse. 

Arvel awoke to the horrible noodling of a bard’s lute. Clearly the musician was not cut out for their profession. The lute’s discordant screams coming from its harshly plucked strings had interrupted a dream Arvel had about the whole town being burned down in flames, with him trapped in the collapsing inn. The nightmare made him wake up in a cold sweat. Despite his rational mind telling him not too, he spent the last of his coins on some wine and a decent breakfast. It was a wine in the morning kind of day, and breakfast was his favorite meal by far. The warm bread and stew helped him forget his dreams. 

Now he needed to make his money back. He avoided prying Nordic eyes and slipped into a general store across the street. He planned to sell the ancient stone tablet for whatever it was worth, clearly some collector or scholarly type would buy it, and hopefully pay with decent coin. He also knew from experience that merchants loved their keepsakes, and would pay handsomely for one. In any case, hopefully if the shopkeeper wouldn’t buy, they would point to someone who would.

A man with a devilish smile and large sideburns stood at the counter. The man perked up when he saw Arvel enter and greeted him. “Everything's for sale, my friend. Everything! If I had a sister, I'd sell her in a second.” 

“Huh?” Arvel was taking out the stone tablet but was stopped in his tracks by the merchant’s unnerving demeanor. 

The man kept up his grin. “Ha ha ha... That's a little joke.” He was unfazed.

“Oooooookay well I uhhhh, I found this ancient stone tablet in an old Nord ruin around Riverwood. Looks really important with a lot of carvings and the like, are you interested in buying? I bet it's a map to some ancient treasure or something.” Arvel would have delivered a better pitch, but the whole sister selling thing really threw off his game. 

“Really? Old Nord ruin you say? Out by Riverwood? The Jarl’s court wizard said he was looking for something with almost that exact same description last week. How about we let me buy this off your hands and I’ll send it down the proper channels?” The sideburned man put out his hands to grab the tablet. 

Arvel pulled away. “Um, no thanks friend. I think I’ll just see this wizard myself.” 

“You sure? I can give you-” The merchant was walking towards him but Arvel quickly ran out of the store. He would deal with this wizard, who at least would hopefully not be as creepy as that salesman. 

After a few minutes of talking about a dragon at Helgen and lying about where he got the stone tablet, Arvel managed to gain entry into the Jarl’s palace. He was led to the court wizard, who also sideburns that were even bigger than the merchant’s, it was a popular fashion in Whiterun apparently. The mage lit up when he saw Arvel produce the ancient artifact out of his pack. 

“That’s it! That’s the dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! Why in Oblivion were you in that near forgotten tomb? How did you not die?” The wizard spoke in a frenzy of excitement.

“I was lost in the snowy mountains and sought out the ruin for shelter. One thing led to another and I ended up fighting many undead draugrs. I’m quick with my blade and managed to fight my way out. This was what I got to show for it.” The wizard bought the tale and the dragonstone. Arvel congratulated himself on a lie well done and made his way out of the palace. He had a very heavy coin purse and a smile on his face. 

Arvel was debating whether or not to get second breakfast when a little girl in a mud covered green shirt with barely any meat on her bones ran up to him. “Could you spare a coin? I’m so hungry.” She said. 

Arvel quickly began walking away. He wasn’t going to let some dirty urchin ruin his celebration. Something stopped him though. He turned around to look at her. She looked just like how his younger siblings and cousins had looked like when they came to Windhelm, and he certainly had spare septims. He loudly groaned. “Oh alright fine, here’s a few coins, get yourself some food kid.” 

“Oh, thank you! Divines bless your kind heart!” She quickly grabbed the coins from Arvel’s hand. He was somewhat surprised no one was looking after her. 

“What happened to your parents? Why are you out here?” He said.

"It's... it's what I’ve been doing since my mama...Since she died. My aunt and uncle took over our farm and threw me out. Said I wasn't good for anything. I wound up here, but... I.. I don't know what to do. I miss her so much..." She was beginning to cry. 

“Oh Gods by Malacath's armpits! this isn’t what I need right now.” He was in such a good mood before this. But he felt for the poor kid. His childhood in the Grey Quarter slums hadn’t exactly been pretty. 

One thing led to another and he was suddenly buying the girl her first breakfast along with his second at the Bannered Mare. He had no choice but to share the divine nature of good food in the morning. 

Farengar Secret-Fire, Whiterun’s court wizard, studied the Dragonstone closely. He had no clue what the dots all over the map of Skyrim meant, but over several hours he was able to translate the old Dragon language writing on the back of the tablet. He finished just after nightfall. 

The words meant “Here lie our Fallen Lords, until the power of Alduin revives.”

Farengar heard the frantic approaching footsteps of Irileth, the Jarl’s huscarl. 

“Farengar! You must come at once! A dragon has been sighted near the city!” She yelled when she entered the room. 

The wizard's excitement for learning about dragons quickly died. Farengar now knew what the dots meant. The many ancient graves of the dragons in Skyrim were now empty. The world was going to end. 


	5. Sovngarde awaits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The warriors of Whiterun gather in a desperate battle to defend their home. Arvel takes his first leap into faith.

A hungry dragon eyed the vulnerable city of Whiterun with vicious intent. The war horns blasted as every able bodied warrior gathered their weapons and mustered to the main gate to defend their home. Arvel was running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. The old walls of Whiterun were easy to scale as he snuck out of the doomed city. 

He wanted to be as far away as he could from the massive wooden buildings, which would certainly go up in smoke just like Helgen. He only believed the dragon was real when he heard the distant roars coming from the south and saw all the terrified warriors gathering. Then it became all too real. 

As he climbed the crumbling wall and navigated his way down to the other side he broke off into a run again, this time for as far north as he could. Maybe he would run all the way back to Morrowind, or get a ship to the isle of Solstheim. He just wanted to put miles and miles between him and the dragon. 

But his stubborn heart froze his feet solid in the shadow of Whiterun. He thought of the poor orphaned girl, begging on the streets. Her name was Lucia. He bought her breakfast, the divine meal. He thought of the kind innkeeper who gave him a bed in the dead of the night. He thought of his family being consumed by the smoke, fire, and ash during the Red Year. He thought of his brother and Uncle dying in a lava storm that came from the godless Red Mountain. This was a town he hadn’t known until yesterday, but he did not wish them to share his family’s cursed fate. 

Even though he was just one man, half decent with a blade, he knew he’d never forgive himself for leaving Whiterun to die. He had so many regrets. He could not add to them anymore.

“Mara’s bloody crotch!” He turned around, went back over the city walls, and joined the warriors to defend the city.

The warriors gathered outside the city gates. They could see smoke and fire rising from the western watchtower. Arvel was amazed at Irileth, the Jarl’s battlemage huscarl, leading them into battle. She was a Dunmer just like him. It was comforting knowing he might not be the only Dark Elf to die for the sake of these Nords. 

As Irileth laid out their simple battle plan to try and bring the dragon down, Arvel noticed the Nord standing next to him. She was clad in armor that clearly had been used in many battles. She had a massive steel greatsword slung over her shoulder. She noticed Arvel’s gaze and turned to him. 

“I can’t believe I’m going to die fighting alongside an elf,” she said.

“I can’t believe I’m going to die fighting alongside a witless Nord,” he said. 

She laughed and slapped him on the back. “I will die fighting a dragon. There is no greater honor.” 

Arvel stumbled from the impact a little and chuckled. “I’m not so sure of that, friend.”

The Nord hardened her gaze at the burning tower. “I am sure, elf. Sovngarde awaits.”

“I have a name. It’s Arvel.”

The Nord surprised him. “It’s good to meet you, Arvel. They call me Uthgerd, the Unbroken.” 

The warriors slowly approached the watchtower with weapons drawn. The scene of destruction was horrific. Several bodies of what used to be Whiterun guardsmen laid in charred piles of ash. Arvel was having second thoughts about all of this. He could probably outrun them all and get away. Then he heard a dragon roar come from almost overhead, and he knew it was too late to run. 

Irileth began firing silver bolts of magical lightning from her hand as the dragon flew in from the dark night clouds. She yelled to her desperate troops. "Here he comes! Find cover and make every arrow count!" Arvel dove into the cover of the ruined tower as a wave of golden fire descended on the warriors. The dragon’s massive jaw jumped out of the void and snatched up several guardsmen and threw them into the sky. The bright color of the fire turned night into day. 

A rain of arrows flew up to meet the beast and it cried in its dragon tongue. Arvel recognized it as the same language as the chanting from the wall in Bleak Falls Barrow. Arvel snatched up a bow and quiver from a dead guard and tried to ascend up the tower’s steps to reach its roof. He was emboldened by Irileth's bravery and tenacity as she bombarded the dragon with magic. Before he could make it to his perch the dragon landed on the peak of the tower and bathed the battlefield in flame. Its massive tail blocked his way. 

As if the beast had walked out of Arvel’s nightmares, the dragon finally spoke in a language he could understand. In a deep and deadly voice it bellowed. “I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!"

Without thinking, Arvel drew the string of his bow and sent an arrow into the dragon’s exposed underbelly. The monster screamed and launched itself from the tower back into the sky. He flew around and started making circles around the tower, eviscerating every possible enemy with fire and death. 

Arvel had never been brave. He would always run from his problems and use trickery to get out of a fair fight. But now he faced the dragon. From the peak of the watchtower he could see the city of Whiterun. The warriors were obviously losing, but their weapons still found purchase. His arrow proved the beast could feel pain. 

From his vantage point he could almost touch the dragon as it flew by. It began to hover to the side of the tower, flapping its massive wings to stay afloat. The power of the wings blew the arrows back and knocked the brave warriors to the ground. The dragon reared its head and let out a burst of flame. Arvel saw Uthgerd the Unbroken, down in the field, consumed by flame. Few warriors remained, and the ones that did had nothing that could kill the bloodthirsty monstrosity. 

Arvel the Swift drew his ancient Nordic blade. A cold chill radiated from the weapon. He thought of his sick mother, dying in bed. He thought of the monsters no weapon could ever touch. Perhaps his ancestors would accept him if he went out like this, with some dammed honor. Perhaps he would be added to their song. He didn’t know and knew he didn’t care. He just didn’t want to see more people being eaten by the fire. 

So he jumped from the tower.

And the dragon came down with him.


	6. The Brow that holds the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Arvel the Swift sleeps and recovers from his injuries, the Gods of Mundus hold council. Talos, the man who conquered all of Tamriel to become a divine, petitions the other Gods to save mortals from their fast coming fate. Doom is on the horizon.

While Arvel the Swift slept, the universe wandered into the vast unknown. High above and deep below, the planets of Mundus - the Gods numbered Eight - were characteristically silent in council. All stood motionless around the crumbling throne of Akatosh, the King of the divines. He was the God of dragons and time itself. 

It would have been as silent as the grave if not for the divine wind and the One who spoke. The One newcomer to the council of Gods ruled his own domain, but without a true seat to the debate. He was Talos, with a mighty golden crown upon his head. He stood before the Aedra and made his case to them and, by extension, to the universe itself. His name was also Tiber Septim, Ysmir, and many other names. He was once a man, and then he was Emperor of all of Tamriel. That was long ago. Now he was a God. 

With his three human tongues he spoke to the Gods. It was a desperate plea, but what a mighty voice it was. It came from the clouds, broke through the mists between the worlds, and announced its undertaking. His words were filled with unholy pride. For the first time in many years he could speak with his real voice again, and not with a whisper. 

“Will you stand idly by as the coming doom destroys everything mortals have built? Will you not bless a hero with my blood and give them a chance to prove their worth once more? Have they not served you as you always desired?”

The planets were silent, as always, while Ysmir spoke, but the cosmic wind trembled at his voice. It was like the mist wanted to change its course but the air itself would not obey. The heroic God of mankind was disappointed, but not surprised. The Gods did not speak, but they did act when the time came. 

So he held vigil in the mist between the worlds, waiting for the signs. He would wait, wait, and wait. Even his unnatural divine patience wore thin as he stood, never letting his gaze move from Akatosh’s throne. Talos’ golden crown, a herald of storms and his completed destiny, grew uneasy on his head. 

Finally he withdrew his stare from the God of time. Akatosh’s golden glow seemed to taunt him as he left, but he had no choice. He had grown weary, as only former mortals did. He retreated to his dragonbone throne within his Palace of Kings and rested. He was surrounded by the shades of his former warriors and loyal councilors. He believed he was safe while he regained his strength. 

But a blade came in the night. It was another shade from Tiber’s past. A nightblade who knew Talos’ true name snuck into the throne room and slit the God’s throat while he slept. The assassin disappeared into the mist between the worlds before Tiber could catch him. 

The hero God of men looked down to the floor of his palace. It was wet with his own blood. The pool was still red, even after everything he had done in his life. 

He looked to his holy throne to see the golden Stormcrown was gone.


	7. The Ruse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel wakes up as a hero. He is celebrated throughout Whiterun as a savior and glorious dragonslayer. He is showered in gold and glory. Now he is desperate to leave as soon as possible with all his newfound wealth.

Arvel woke up warm and in love. He was embraced wholeheartedly by the morning light streaming in through the glass windows of Dragonsreach. It was the best sleep he had in years. He opened his eyes to a fellow Dunmer sitting next to him. It was Irileth, the Jarl’s Huscarl who had led all the brave warriors into battle with the dragon. He saw her face up close. She had piercing red eyes the color of blood and hair the color of a raging fire. For a moment, Arvel was too entranced to move or say anything. 

“You’re finally awake, you crazy son of a Daedroth,” she said when she saw Arvel’s eyes open. “Somehow you killed the dragon and saved the whole city. One second I was sure we were all dead and the next I saw you on top of that damn thing’s head covered in blood. I’ll be honest, that was one of the hairiest fights I’ve ever been in.” 

“So I’m the hero? We’re okay?” Arvel began to get up from his slumber.

“Yeah, at least in my book. You saved my ass out there. It was damn impressive.” She smiled and helped Arvel into a sitting position at the end of the bed.

Arvel looked down for a moment, and then yelled in triumph, nearly knocking Irileth out of her chair. “YES! I’m gonna be rich!” 

Irileth couldn’t decide whether or not to slap him. 

It had been three full days that Arvel had been stuck in his bed. When he jumped from the western watchtower, his blade had gone clear through the dragon’s eye and into its brain. The beast plummeted from the sky and slammed into the earth, flinging Arvel like an ant into the ground and knocking him out cold. The healers from the temple of Kynareth had luckily managed to heal his broken bones, but now when he coughed it hurt more than usual from his bruised ribs. 

It was golden and glorious despite the pain of his injuries. For a few days after Arvel suspected that maybe he had died and gone to some form of the afterlife. The Jarl of Whiterun and showered him with titles and gold. He was now Thane of Whiterun and a hero among the Nords! He could hardly believe it. They called him “Dragonborn,” an ancient heroic title for a killer of dragons and savior of Skyrim. They said he had absorbed the soul of the dragon when he killed it, and that now he could channel its power. 

Arvel had no idea what any of that nonsense meant. He certainly didn’t feel like he had absorbed a dragon’s soul. But everyone loved him and they were giving him money, so he didn’t care. He just went with it when the Jarl pronounced him Dragonborn and gave him the task to journey to High Hrothgar, apparently so that some senile old Nord monks could officially declare him as the savior of Skyrim. Whatever kept all the booze and gold flowing was fine by him. After a few days of feasting he drunkenly ordered a Nord guard to find lodging and food for Lucia, the poor child he had met begging on the streets, and the brute actually did it! Arvel was drunk off good wine and the power to order around men who had only a week before spit on him. 

It could only last for so long though. The Jarl began asking when he was going to leave. Nord warriors and scholars began interrogating him about how it had _felt_ to kill a dragon. He had no real answers.  Irileth was the first to see clearly through Arvel’s thin ruse. One night, long after most of the palace had retired to bed, Irileth came to his room. 

“I see you’re handling things well.” She spoke from outside the dim glow of Arvel’s candle. Arvel hadn’t seen her come in or heard her steps as she approached. He jumped up and yelped out a rather embarrassing scream. He tried to grab his sword, but ended up tripping over himself. Irileth found him in a pile of half eaten food, mead, and a mound of loose septims. 

“What do you want? Come to enjoy the Dragonborn’s company?” Arvel tried to regain some of his composure. His partially slurred words ruined any chance of success. 

“I would have expected the Dragonborn to be a bit more heroic. If I was an assassin this would be a very shameful way to end your story, lying on the floor drunk and stupid.” Irileth helped his scarred body up off the floor. 

“I’m only a little buzzed. Trust me... I’m very good at this sort of thing.”

“I’m sure you are.” Irileth brushed a large swath of crumbs of Arvel’s shoulder. “I have a hunch, Serjo.” 

“And what is that, Sera?” Arvel realized that was the first time anyone had called him Serjo. It had always been “stranger” or “grey-skin” or “lying dirty thief.” 

Irileth crossed her arms. “You’re in over your head and you have no idea what’s going on. You’re just soaking up the glory and coin for all its worth and the second you get the chance you’re gonna skip town.” Arvel realized she could probably break him like a twig. 

It was no use hiding it. It wasn’t exactly like he had hidden his packed rucksack in the corner of his room particularly well. Also he was dressed in his new leather armor, ready for travel. “Alright, you got me there.” 

“You don’t even know where High Hrothgar is, do you?” Irileth said, accusingly. 

“I assume it's somewhere up high, right?” 

They both laughed for a while and sat down at Arvel’s table. 

“These Nords sure have a way with things don’t they.” Irileth smiled.

“They really do. I can’t believe they think a Dunmer is going to save them. I was invisible to them just weeks ago.” 

“They’re scared. They think the world is going to end now that the Dragons are back. That's what they’ve always been taught. They’re desperate for something to hold onto. It helps that you’re here with Balgruuf, he’s a good man. He knows not all heroes are Nords.” 

“If I killed a dragon, anyone can. I’m sure they’ll figure that out here sooner or later. By that time I’m going to be long gone.” 

“That’s not how the world works, Sera. The dragons are a real problem. They’ll burn down countless villages and cities if they aren’t stopped. There’s been sightings of them all over Skyrim now, and they’re spreading. There’s even ones rumored to be in Cyrodiil and Hammerfell.” 

“So I’ll go to Solstheim and hope they can’t fly that far, or live underground somewhere. Let these damn flying assholes burn Skyrim. It's not like many Nords would help if this was the case in Morrowind.” 

Irileth sighed. “Then why did you jump from that tower? Why did you even help in the first place?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Regardless, you need to go to High Hrothgar, even if there’s a slim chance you’re this nonsense hero, the Dragonborn. We need someone to help stop these monsters. We need to know. I saw what a dragon could do to my men. The thing ate some of the best warriors I’ve ever trained in a single bite. If these dragons really are going to attack Tamriel, maybe the idea of a Dragonborn who can steal their souls isn’t so crazy.” 

“Why in the hell do you think it's me? Far better warriors could have killed that beast had they been in my place.” 

She grabbed his hand. “You’re wrong, Arvel. You jumped from that tower when no one else would do it, not even warriors who have fought a hundred battles, not even me.” 

He looked at her for a long moment. She was beautiful and far wiser than him, far more clever. Arvel knew that right away. He let go of her hand. 

“It was a one time thing. I don’t want any part of this. I’m going out to try and find the last part of the world that’s still sane.” Arvel got up to leave. No one could have stopped him until he was long gone. He was a Thane. The guards would have all finally left him alone. 

Irileth thought about grabbing him to keep him from disappearing into the night, but then she realized all she needed to do was say the words.

“Do it for me, Serjo, as a fellow Dunmer in this cold realm. We’re two grey specks in the snow. Come with me to High Hrothgar, if you aren’t Dragonborn you can disappear. But if you are, you have to help us.” 

Arvel was halfway out the door. His quick legs begged him to keep going, but his heart slapped him across the face and told him to stay. 

He took a deep breath before the plunge.

“Fine. I’ll go.” 


	8. 14,000 Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel and Irileth travel to the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar to test Arvel's soul.

“7,000 steps! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’ll pass out from exhaustion before we even get to the damn top.” Arvel groaned. 

“Ha! You told me yesterday you were supposed to be called the swift. Did that dragon ruin your legs more than I thought? Or were you just bullshitting me?” Irileth lightly punched him in the shoulder in the perfect place where it wouldn’t hurt his still healing ribs. 

Arvel had tried to make the trip alone, but Irileth insisted on coming along to make sure he kept his word. It was probably a wise decision considering Arvel debated bolting away every time they made camp for the night. He had to admit though, he liked having Irileth around. No bandits or highwaymen were able to hurt them when she used her lightning magic. 

For the first time since he left Windhelm years ago, he was traveling with another child of Morrowind. So every time he tried to leave, he reluctantly pulled himself back. They had traveled for several days due east of Whiterun and finally curved south to the base of the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in Tamriel. 

The two Dunmer stood at the crossroads in Ivarstead, a small Nord village nestled in the mountain pass. The 7,000 steps to High Hrothgar didn’t go all the way up, but it certainly would still be a climb. The Nords occasionally made pilgrimages to the monastery, but few had made the full climb in recent years. 

“You really managed to downplay the amount of damn climbing we were going to have to do here.” Arvel kept on complaining.

“Would you prefer I carry you all the way up? I’m sure the Greybeards would love that.” Irileth grinned. 

Arvel had to smile back. “Fine, fine let's just get going.” 

Irileth performed a deep bow and gestured forward, letting him go first. “Please Sera, lead the way.” 

The icy wind and drifts of snowfall grew stronger and stronger as the two Dunmer made their way up the mountain. After a full day of horrific cold and endless climbing, they could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Far away and up the path stood the tower of High Hrothgar. It looked frozen and desolate, but the light from hearth fires inside the windows confirmed that life was still within. The fact that someone had willingly chosen to live here proved to Arvel that the ice and snow really had frozen the Nords' brains. 

“How do Nords manage to even have sex?” He stopped an exhausted moment to breathe, “wouldn’t the cold just freeze … their tiny… balls?” Arvel loudly spoke over the howling wind. Even though they were near freezing to death, Arvel still had space in his mind to make jokes. 

“I asked Balgruuf the exact same thing actually, he didn’t take very kindly to it.” Irileth laughed but Arvel couldn’t hear it over the wind. 

Then they both heard a loud roar from the icy ridge above them. A massive shape, twice the size of Arvel, descended from the snowy sky and slammed the ground in between the two Dunmer. 

Arvel tumbled backwards as Irileth screamed, “frost troll!” She covered the three eyed beast with magic flames to halt its power of regenerative healing. The troll howled in pain and turned to face her. She could barely get the spell’s heat to work in the unstoppable wind. Arvel was still crawling around for his weapon in the deep snowbank. 

The magical force of her spell finally wore out and the beast swung its massive claws at her. She expertly ducked and rolled out of the way, disappearing into the snow. The troll lost track of his victim and started swinging around wildly trying to find her. 

Arvel finally got back on his feet and yelled at the frost troll, “hey ugly! Come and eat my sword!” He then picked up a hastily made snowball and threw it at the troll. With terrifying speed the beast sprinted at Arvel. He sidestepped just a little and managed to dodge an icy claw before digging his sword into the troll’s chest. The beast did not seem to notice. The frost enchantment on Arvel’s ancient blade actually seemed to be a pleasant feeling to the troll. 

“Neravar’s tits!” He yelled. 

The frost troll ripped Arvel into the snow and opened its disgusting and bloody mouth to eat him. But before the troll could devour Arvel’s face two daggers appeared out of thin air and ripped into either side of the troll’s neck. Irileth materialized as she dropped her chameleon spell and forced the beast with her daggers to back up and away from Arvel. She stabbed over and over again until finally the troll succumbed. It fell limp to the ground. Irileth then got back up and burned the troll’s body with as much magical fire as she could muster to make sure it was really dead. 

She pulled Arvel out of the snow. “That was good thinking with the frost enchanted sword. You distracted it enough for me to kill it.” She said. 

“Yeah that was totally on purpose.”

Arvel knocked on the cold metal door. The sound echoed off the stone work of the monastery and descended down the mountain. “It’s too late to back out now, right?” he asked his companion.

She laughed. “It would be unwise to prank the Greybeards by knocking and then running away, if that's what you’re asking.” 

The doors suddenly opened to a darkened hall, with no one in sight. 

“I guess that’s our cue.” Arvel walked inside. 

Gathered in a semicircle at the entrance of the monastery were the four members of the Greybeards. Their skin was as pale as the snow outside and their long beards stood up to their name. Only one of them spoke, in a calm and calculated voice that sounded like unimaginable effort was put into every word. 

“Why have you come here, children of the east?” He asked.

Arvel didn’t quite know what to say. “I killed” he stopped and looked at Irileth, “or at least helped kill a dragon. The Jarl said maybe I was dragonborn. So now here we are. Apparently you are the experts on this sort of thing.” 

“I will make this brief then, you are not dragonborn.” He said.

It felt like the old Nord monk had slapped him in the face. 

“You are not blessed by the Gods with the inborn gift. You should be able to speak in the dragon tongue, and use the Thu’um as if it was your native language. You have done none of those things. We hear every shout in Tamriel. We did not hear yours, or see the soul of the dragon leaving its body and coming to you.” 

Arvel didn’t know quite why he was so angry, but he was. A deep rage burned inside him. At least after all this effort of getting here it would have been nice for the stories to be true. He began to cry. Suddenly, he wanted all of this, even though he had sworn he hadn’t. He wanted Irileth to be right, and wanted to help her. “What if I just haven’t manifested it yet? How many dragons do I have to fucking kill to be the damn dragonborn?”

“You did not kill any dragon. Their souls remain for Alduin to raise once more.” He said.

Irileth stepped in front of Arvel and spoke. “So you’re saying the legends are true about Alduin?” 

“They are not legends. They are history.” 

“Bullshit!” Arvel yelled, “You just can’t imagine a dragonborn not being a bloody Nord!”

“There have been many dragonborns in history and many of them have not been descended from the blood of Atmora. I say you are not dragonborn because I know it to be so.” Despite Arvel’s anger, the Greybeard speaker continued to speak calmly. 

Deep down Arvel knew that the old man was speaking the truth. He wasn’t the dragonborn. He wasn’t the hero. He was just some washed up thief, far from home. After a long silence he found an old bench in the entryway and sank into it. 

Irileth wasn’t done yet. “So the world is going to end if we don’t find a dragonborn?” 

“The world is going to end because there is no dragonborn.” He said. 

The speaker of the Greybeards paused and realized the gravity of his words. These poor travelers had been promised a false hope. 

“The world is meant to end.”

Arvel was ready to deny it all and hide, the way he always had. “I guess we’ll just leave then. We don't need the words of senile old men.” Irileth still stood in the center of the room, frozen solid. 

The speaker of the Greybeards knew their pain. He had seen it before. “Please rest here before you go, it's a long 7,000 steps down." 


	9. The Last Student of the Greybeards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blizzard traps Arvel and Irileth in the lonely monastery of the Greybeards. While Irileth sticks with the hope that there is a way to fight the dragons and stop the end of the world, Arvel loses his already flimsy resolve. Arngeir hears grim tales from the outside world.

“Perhaps they can still teach you.” Irileth whispered in the dead of night. The pair of Dunmer laid in the same cold bed, deep in the belly of High Hrothgar.

“What do you mean? You want me to stay locked up in here all my life? Like those creepy old Nords? Not a damn chance, Sera.” Arvel replied.

“I don’t mean that. They’re not just living here in the frozen arse end of nowhere for show. They have historically taught warriors how to use the power of the voice, although they haven’t actually accepted a student in something like 30 years.” Irileth had to speak quietly so as to not wake the Greybeards. The monks’ heavy sleeping schedules were somewhat at odds with their fearsome reputation. 

“So you think they’re gonna take in some random Dark Elf asshole off the street?” Arvel turned over in the bed to face away from her. He had insisted they leave as soon as possible, but a snow storm from the north had trapped them here. The days they were stuck in the monastery dragged on and Arvel became more and more irritable. He just wanted to be somewhere warm and enjoy himself before the world was eaten by an immortal dragon. 

“You’re not a random Dark Elf asshole. You’re a random Dark Elf asshole who managed to kill a dragon, break into a Nordic tomb, and find a map of dragon burial sites.” Irileth smiled behind Arvel’s back. Even though he couldn’t see it, he could sense it. 

“Okay assume they’d even teach me, wouldn’t that still be useless? Arngeir said that no matter what I do this fucker Alduin will just resurrect the dragons again.” Arvel started to take more of the single blanket they had to share.

“Oh don’t you dare you little shit. It’s freezing in here!” Irileth yanked the blanket back.

One of the silent members of the Greybeards brought them their breakfast. The snow was still falling steadily and it looked like it would be several more days before the mountain pass cleared enough to leave. Arvel looked out their small window in the stone monastery with contempt. The damn snow was making him spend more time with old, smelly Nords. It was hell.

He turned his gaze back to the woman who dragged him all the way up here. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her for getting him into this mess. She wanted to still find a way to save the world. Arvel was trying to decide if he even cared. 

The two continued their argument once the Greybeards were out of earshot. “Just ask Arngeir about it. I’m sure he’d at least consider it! What else could he possibly have to do up here anyway?” Irileth spoke as she paced around the room. 

“Fine! I’ll ask him!” Arvel relented.

“No.” Arngeir flatly replied. 

“Azura’s ass you people are useless.” Arvel walked away. 

“Did you even ask why he said no? You didn’t even try to convince him?” Irileth raised her voice in frustration. 

“Of course not I walked away to make a point!” Arvel raised his voice to match her. 

“Well get back in there and ask him before he figures out whatever stupid point you were trying to make!” 

“Fine!”

“Why not?” Arvel stormed back into Arngeir’s study. 

“Because the Greybeards do not exist to make you a better warrior. We exist to pass on the teachings of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder. He laid out the honorable ‘way of the voice’ specifically to hone the practice of the Thu’um into a prayer, not a weapon. You want to use the voice as a weapon, if you even want it at all.” Arngeir didn’t even raise his eyes from the large ancient tome he was reading. 

“I want it! If I can at least use some of this ‘voice’ thing I can help Irileth fight the dragons!” Arvel raised his voice again.

Arngeir closed his book, looked up at Arvel, and smiled. “I have lived on a mountain top in seclusion for almost a century and even I can see that is a lie.” 

“Don’t try to tell me what I want, Nord.” Arvel could feel rage burn through his body. He was so tired and frustrated and he exploded. “Don’t try and lecture me as if you are wise. Sitting and doing nothing with power isn’t fucking wisdom. You’ve been here for a hundred years? And you say you're honorable? Okay, I’ll bite. Where were you when the civil war started? Where were you when those Nord savages burned entire villages and towns? They imprisoned my family in a Windhelm slum and let them die of hunger while they feasted! Irileth says you’re powerful and influential. You could have stopped all of that, couldn’t you?” 

Arngeir stood up and the entire monastery shook from his voice. “You think we have sat here idly? We pray and use our voice in the glory of the Gods! We work to gain their wisdom! Are you wiser than a God?” 

“What Gods? The Imperial ones or your pathetic Nordic ones? I’d argue even the stupidest Dunmer is smarter than them. We make our own Gods.” Arvel was undaunted by the rising power of Arngeir’s voice. 

“Don’t you dare invoke the fury of the divines, elf! You are subject to their wrath whether you believe in them or not!” Arngeir unleashed his voice and threw Arvel out the room. The Dunmer slid across the hard stone floor and into the main chamber of the monastery. 

Arvel struggled to regain his breath and held his ribs. “Gods or no, you can’t scare me, Nord. Apparently we’re all going to die soon anyway.” He said as he laid on the floor. The other members of the Greybeards surrounded him in a circle now. 

“Go ahead! Shout me apart! Kill me the way Ulfric killed your stupid High King!” Arvel yelled.

Irileth came running from their room. “Arvel no! Please forgive him! We'll leave you at once!” She ran out to him and pulled him back on his feet. She whispered in his ear. “Nice going, asshole.” 

When the two turned back to look at Arngeir they both saw the fire and rage leave his eyes. “Ulfric?” 

“Yeah, head prick of the Nordic race, heard of him?” Arvel spit back. To no avail Irileth tried to cover his mouth and shut him up. 

“Then it is as I feared.” Arngeir solemnly looked down and walked out of the chamber. 

There was a long and painful silence. “What’s his problem?” Arvel asked no one in particular. The other speechless monks stood like statues. 

Irileth suddenly put the pieces together. “He didn’t know.” The rebel who was causing Skyrim to destroy itself from the inside was once one of the Greybeard’s most promising students. Ulfric Stormcloak had used prayer to murder. 


	10. The Voice Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel and Arngeir reconcile while they debate the fate of the universe and the will of the Gods. Irileth is surprised by the decision of the Greybeards.

Arngeir sat cross legged in prayer. He was deep in the cold snow atop Kyne’s sacred mountain. He did not weep, but pride seeped away from his body. Meanwhile, the rage had left Arvel. He mourned for his parents, lost in the Grey Quarter of Windhelm. It had been so long since the grief had visited him, it was an unwelcome guest that could not be long ignored. Irileth held him as he wept for lost years. Eventually, Arvel and Irileth returned to the speaker of the Greybeards in the courtyard of High Hrothgar. The wind seemed to slow and the snow lightly kissed Arvel’s messy black hair. 

Arvel sighed. “Your Gods are no business of mine, Nord, but I suppose I can’t blame you for how you worship them.” 

“I apologize for striking you, Dunmer. I shamed myself and the Greybeards by using my voice in such a manner. It goes against all of our sacred traditions and teachings.” Arngeir’s words wavered in his throat.

“I have been known for my rather … frustrating behavior at times.” Arvel looked at Irileth, the Dunmer who for some reason always stood by him. She lightly smiled. He sat down next to Arngeir. “I’m sure your Gods will understand.” 

They stayed silent for some time, both contemplating their grief. Finally, Arngeir was the first to speak. 

“He came to us when he was still just a boy.” 

Arvel tightened his fist in the snow so the Greybeard could not see. “You mean Ulfric?” 

“Yes, he was an amazing student, but that was so many years ago. I … am sorry for the acts of my fellow Nords, Dunmer. They dishonor our traditions and the teachings of the Gods. We were not always this callous. We once proudly helped the other peoples of Tamriel, not because it was our duty, but because it was right.”

Arngeir and Arvel stared out into the deep abyss beyond the Throat of the World. You could see half of Skyrim from their vantage point. It was a long way down. 

“That does not even begin to heal my pain, Nord.” 

“I know. There is nothing within my power that can do that, but that is not all I have to say.” Some strength returned to Arngeir’s voice. “The Gods have brought you here for a reason, whether you believe it or not. I was a fool to ignore them. I will not make that mistake again. I will train you in some of the ways of the voice.” 

Arvel knew Arngeir’s thoughts. “Some, not all.” 

“There are some secrets only meant for the Dragonborn and there is some knowledge that would take too long to learn. But if you wish to fight the end of the world until your dying breath, I will teach you the way.”

“Why should I believe the world is going to end, Greybeard? The Red Mountain destroyed my home but not the world. Is Alduin not something similar? Perhaps you Nords can’t see a world beyond Skyrim.” 

A hand grabbed Arvel’s shoulder. “Please don’t piss him off again, Arvel. I don’t want to get thrown off a mountain.” Irileth spoke before Arngeir could reply. 

“Don’t worry, I take no offense, and you are partially right. Some Nords wrongly believe this is the center of the Nirn. But I am certain about the world. The return of Alduin and his destruction of the mortal realm has been foretold since almost the dawn of time itself. Alduin is invincible to our kind. I will teach you the ways of the voice so you may fight, but you will lose. I have realized though that this is my duty, directed by Kyne, the Sister Hawk herself. She has done this before. In ancient times of the Dragon War she instructed Paarthurnax, the brother of Alduin, to teach mortal heroes the Thu’um so they could rebel against their dragon masters.” 

“If we aren’t supposed to win, how did the ancients do it? Until a few weeks ago there were no dragons at all. The ancient Nords must have defeated them somehow.” Irileth sat on the opposite side of Arngeir in the snow.

Arngeir breathed deeply. “I do not know. Perhaps you will find a way. However, the absence of a Dragonborn is no accident. I would not hold hope.” 

“If there really is no hope, why do we even fight? This is pointless.” Arvel stood up.

Irileth got up with him. “We fight to take as many dragons as possible with us, and to buy time for the people we love.” 

“There is no one I love anymore, Irileth. My family is gone!” Arvel yelled into the sky. 

Arngeir spoke, “do not throw away your life so quickly, Arvel.” He rose and walked out of the courtyard, leaving the two Dark Elves to argue over the possible fate of the universe. The debate didn’t last long. Arvel, stubborn as he was, knew Irileth was right.

Arvel and Irileth laid in their cold bed the next morning, wondering what the day held in store for them. “I hope these Nord teachings don’t involve a lot of reading,” Arvel said. 

Irileth laughed. “Of course you don’t, Ice-brain.” 

“What? Have you read any of their dumb story books? It’s like if a troll could talk.”

“Shhhhh!! Don’t let them hear you say that!!” Irileth lightly punched Arvel with a grin. 

A few moments later, Arngeir walked into the room. “Today we begin your training in the Way of the Voice, I hope you both are prepared.” 

“As I’ll ever be.” Arvel replied.

Irileth shot up. “What do you mean, both?” 

“The Greybeards have decided that we will train both of you. We will atone for the sins of our failed student by training two new pupils that believe in our ways. And besides, two voices are always better than one.” It was hard to tell, but Arngeir almost seemed like he was smiling.


	11. Whirlwind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel and Irileth both begin their long training with the Greybeards. They contemplate the nature of the sky for long hours in the courtyard of High Hrothgar. Arvel struggles to find his true voice while Irileth unexpectantly discovers an element of her past that strengthens her Thu'um. Arngeir rediscovers his pride and sense of humor.

Teacher and student, Arngeir and Arvel, stood side by side in the snowy courtyard of High Hrothgar. It was early in the morning. A pale pink sunrise lightly warmed the mountaintop. 

“Focus on your breath. Through your breath, you build your words. Before the blessing of Kyne Tamriel had no voice and no words. In this way every word you speak, shout or whisper, is in direct communion with the Gods. Every sentence, every thought, is a fragment of divine.” 

“I know how to talk, if that’s what you’re trying to say.” 

“I am teaching you a new way to speak altogether, try to keep up.” 

“Alright, alright.”

“We will first teach you the most basic of shouts and the fundamental basis for all the gifts the Thu’um provides. This shout directly pushes the world with your spirit, through your voice. As you push on the world, the world pushes back. This is the natural way of the world as the Sister Hawk designed. The key is to understand that you can push on the world harder than it pushes back. The balance can, for but a moment, be ruptured.” 

“Let me guess, the secret is yelling really loud.” 

Arngeir sighed. This was going to be much more difficult than he thought. “You know usually our students have far more reverence for our teachings.” 

Arvel displayed a wicked smile. “You’ll have to forgive me, Arngeir. Higher education has never been my strong suit.” 

“Well if you learn anything, learn this: your breath and soul are vital to projecting your voice into a Thu’um. If you lack focus, even for a second, you risk total failure. You must see the world as far beyond simple air, ground, and sky. Every aspect of nature is connected. As you pull on the world to produce your shout, you must supply sufficient energy and focus to achieve success.” 

“Alright well that’s all fine and good but how do I actually do that?”

“You meditate. Once you have seen the true nature of the world through deep introspection, you will know the way.” 

“Oh fuck me.”

“This is how us normal people do this. You aren’t Dragonborn. There are no shortcuts.”

Arngeir left Arvel to meditate on the sky. 

The speaker of the Greybeards had much more luck with his other student. Training had progressed for several weeks, but already Irileth began to master her Thu’um.

“You show great promise, Irileth. Rarely do students so quickly grasp the concept of the first fundamental shout, the unrelenting force.”

Irileth once more unleashed her voice at the magically conjured target. “ _ Fus! _ ” she yelled. The target was blasted away into dust. 

“Yes! Another successful shout. You see that force can be applied subtlety and effortlessly.” 

The student wiped the sweat off her brow and sat down for a breather. 

Arngeir sat next to her on the stone bench. “I must ask, how? Have you studied these arts before?” 

Irileth paused to consider her words. “I have an answer, but I’m not sure you’re going to like it.” 

“Please, tell me.”

“Well, when I meditated like you said, I remembered my past life. I don’t usually like to talk about it but I guess there’s no other way to explain. Before I went off to fight in the Great War I was a member of the Morag Tong, a guild of assassins in mother Morrowind. It was not a pleasant life, but I learned how to survive. I was taught the ways of Mephala, that cruel spinner of lies and plots. For a time, I worshiped her. Since then I've always known how to effortlessly apply the force of death, sometimes even with just a word. So when you told me I had to see that my voice was just another tool to push on the world, I immediately understood.” 

“I see. I would warn you not meddle lightly with the affairs of the Daedric Princes, but I think you’ve already learned that lesson.”

“Let’s not speak more of this, Nord.”

“I understand. Take pride in your progress. Your friend has struggled far more to begin his journey.” 

Irileth had to laugh. “Don’t give up on him, Arngeir. I’ve seen him do amazing things. He has the soul of a brave warrior, even though the little shit tries to deny it. He’ll try to tell you he got his nickname for always swiftly getting out of trouble, but don’t let that fool you. He willingly ran into battle with that dragon.”

“What is this nickname of his that you speak of?”

“Arvel the Swift.”

Arngeir looked off into the great sky beyond. He scratched his long beard in deep thought. “Perhaps there is the answer to Arvel’s woes. I must speak with him!” The Greybeard got up from the bench.

“Whatever you’re planning, make sure you aren’t making him read more.” 

“Don’t worry. I will never try that again!” 

Arvel had struggled for long weeks without any success. He was incredibly tired and frustrated of Arngeir's attempts to make him understand the “divine nature of the shouts.” 

The teacher returned to the student in the courtyard. 

“All this time I have been trying to teach you the first fundamental shout, assuming that was the only way for you to truly learn how to use your voice. But I think I was mistaken. Perhaps you would learn better if the shout better matches your character and soul.”

“At last, you teach me the shout that lets me curse so loud at my enemies that their heads burst.” 

Arngeir laughed. It was the first time Arvel had ever heard the sound. “No my friend, nothing so crude. This is one of the most elegant shouts, at least in my opinion. It is the whirlwind sprint, its words herald change and a swift break in the balance of the world. With mastery of this Thu’um you can cover vast distances with but a whisper.”

“I don’t understand. I’ve heard of magic that can increase your natural speed before, how is this different?” 

“You will see for yourself when you feel the wind bend and curl around you. The first word is  _ Wuld _ , which means whirlwind in the dragon tongue. Meditate on your swift speed, and you will understand.” 

“If you say so.” 

A few hours later Arvel whispered, “ _ Wuld!” _ and nearly flew off the mountain and into the deep valley below. His form instantly exploded clear across the span of the courtyard. Arngeir caught him at the last moment, amazed at Arvel’s speed. 

“With just one word you went farther than some can do with three! That was amazing, Arvel!” Arngeir was smiling wide. 

Arvel could barely stand, but he was beaming with excitement. “I got it! I fucking got it! The air just shot me forward like an arrow! I’ve never felt anything like it!” 

Arngeir was proud for the first time in so many years. “Now I hope you see, Arvel, that your voice is a divine thing. With your spirit you saw the way ahead and instead of running to it, you were simply there already.” 

Arvel took a moment to take in his surroundings and look down at the sharp rocks far below. “You really got to get some rails or something here.” 


	12. Shields, Smoke, Time, and Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel and Irileth continue their desperately rushed training at the monastery of High Hrothgar. Both Dunmer worry that their efforts will be ultimately in vain. Arngeir makes a crucial decision. Arvel has a horrible dream.

Irileth swung wide with her steel sword and Arvel barely had enough time to backpedal out of the way. He responded with a clumsy swing of his own blade. The attack was easily parried by Irileth. She took advantage of Arvel’s poor footwork and struck hard against his banded iron shield. The savage blow nearly knocked him over, but he managed to stay upright as he retreated further away from her, steadily losing ground. 

The two sparred in the morning sun, moving quickly to warm themselves in the cold embrace of Kyne’s sacred mountain. Arvel used a shield that was left next to the offering chest outside the monastery a few weeks before he arrived. The Greybeards had little use for it until now, but they kept it in good condition. It was an immaculate work of craftsmanship, with beautiful inlays of steel and iron throughout its width. Very fine artistic details made a grand swirling pattern that radiated out from the center of the shield. It was heavy, but balanced and easy to hold once Arvel got used to its weight. Irileth swung her sword and hit again. Arvel did not retreat. He lifted the offering to his defense and caused the blade to slide clean to the left, away from his body. 

As the two Dunmer called for a break, a thick cloud of ash rose high into the sky, far to the east of High Hrothgar’s towering mountain perch. 

“Another dragon attack?” Irileth asked. Her footprints were solemn and heavy in the snow. 

Arvel looked out and tried to shade his eyes with his hand. “Probably, it's hard to tell from this far away, but that cloud looks just like the smoke I saw from Helgen.” He gazed forlornly at the black smoke in the sky. “Might have been Windhelm, but it looks like it's coming from too far south. Maybe Kynesgrove or even Shor’s Stone.” His knowledge of Skyrim’s geography had massively improved ever since Arngeir insisted he start studying the extensive maps in the Monastery's library. “I wonder if Ulfric would even be able to defend his city. He has proven his cowardice before. From what I hear he wasn’t able to do anything at Helgen, despite all of his supposed skill with the voice.” 

Irileth put a hand on Arvel’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t speak of Windhelm that way. Many Dunmer refugees still live within those walls. If a dragon did attack, I pray that Azura’s guiding hand would lead them to safety. They’ve all had enough fire and death to last many lifetimes.”

“I know, I know. I just wish the dragons were smart enough to only attack the Nord settlements.” 

“The Nords are people too, Arvel, even if some of them are a pain in the ass sometimes.”

Arvel remembered Lucia, and the other surprisingly kind people of Whiterun. He remembered the Nord Warrior, Uthgerd the Unbroken, who bravely died defending her home from the dragon. “I guess, but if we somehow against all damn odds defeat the dragons and save the world, the lot of them better change their ways. ” 

“Don’t worry Arvel, they will. If they don’t, I will change them myself.” 

“You don’t really believe they’d listen to you? They do not care for the opinions of us elves even on the best of days.”

Irileth spun him around and slapped him. “Are you listening to me now?” 

“Hey! What was that for! I’m your side!”

“I was making a point, Sera. Sometimes you don’t have to listen to get the message.”

The two Dunmer continued their training in the ancient arts of the Thu’um, and trained their skills in weaponry and battle for the inevitable conflicts that were to come, but as each long week passed by, Irileth got more anxious. There were more grave clouds of smoke rising in the sky. They needed to do something  _ now _ . She could not stand idly by while the people of Skyrim burned. 

Irileth now had mastered the second word of unrelenting force,  _ Ro _ , the dragon word for balance. After a deep inhale, she shouted the words “ _ Fus Ro!” _ moving entire chucks of rock off the mountain and a small avalanche of snow. 

“Teach me the third word, Arngeir. I’m ready,” she said. 

“I’m sorry, but you are not. I know you feel we are going too slowly, but I am already rushing the long training of the Thu’um already. I am breaking with tradition in ways that my ancient predecessors would never dream of. Normally students spend years studying history and meditating before they use their voice.”

“We don’t have time! Everyday we spend training is another village of innocents burned by dragonfire!” 

Arngeir scratched his bread for a while. “Perhaps we can use that. I know Arvel’s nature helped him master the whirlwind sprint, maybe time itself, albeit unintentionally, will help you master one of the most subtle, but powerful shouts of all.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“Your voice has theoretically unlimited possibilities. That is why we always advise caution, even in this strange and desperate time. You know it can project powerful force, and bring forth the grave, but it can also do so much more. It can heal and change the world to your will. It can slow time itself.” 

“You mean, with enough practice, I could possibly slow down time to give us more time to fight dragons? Why haven’t you been doing that this whole time?”

“The shout has never been able to slow all of time, for all of Nirn, in the way you describe, but it can maybe give you a second that lasts a minute. Time for everyone else moves the same, the only perspective that changes is for you. Despite my many years of study and meditation, I have never been able to perform the shout itself. I know its secrets from ancient lore, not from experience. My long years of isolation here in this monastery have eroded my sense of time. To me it is already as slow as a glacier and as fast as a bounding elk. But you know time and its tragedies well, perhaps you could channel that into greater understanding.” 

“How can you teach me a shout you don’t know?”

“I know the words, the first is  _ Tiid _ , the dragon word for time.”

“I will meditate on this, Arngeir.”

“The shout will not give you all that you seek, but perhaps it will aid you in battle and soothe your spirit.” 

Arvel through his sword into the ground. 

“You are angry, I take it.” 

“Azura herself must have blessed you with the intelligence of a divine, Arngeir. Yes I am pissed off. I can’t seem to get this whirlwind sprint to work the way I want it too.” Arvel kicked a large chunk of snow onto his weapon, as if to punish it for its misdeeds. 

“What do you mean? I thought you had already mastered the second word.”

“Aye, I have. But it is uninspired. I can sprint across the land in ways I would've never imagined. But there is also so much more it could be. I could channel the sprint into an object, and send it across the courtyard. I’ve been trying with my sword but have had little success.”

“I am proud that you have embraced the freedom of the voice so fully, Arvel, but you must not overextend yourself. You and Irileth have already done more in a few months than many could not do in years. The voice takes a toll on your body and mind, you should rest, before you injure yourself.” 

Arvel could still see some smoke in the air, far to the north. “Irileth is right, we need to do something about these dragons, and we need to do it soon. I will keep training.” 

“If that is your wish, I just know the risks. The Gods never allow mortals to use their magics lightly.”

“We’re all going to die anyway, Arngeir. Now I just want to take as many dragons with me, and maybe look badass while I’m doing it.” 

Arngeir tried to say something reassuring, but he couldn’t come up with the words. He couldn’t deny Arvel’s feelings. Death was coming. 

The other monks of High Hrothgar surrounded Arngeir, all their faces showed concern and frustration. They did not speak, for their voices would have shook their sanctuary off the mountain, but they did move their hands in an ancient code, a mixture of the language of dragons and the words of the ancient Nords, transcribed into the movements of a mortal hand. Such was the tradition of the silent members of the Greybeards, since the long ago days of their founder, Jurgen Windcaller. 

“We are worried,” one signed. “The elves are learning too quickly, and they will destroy themselves with the power of the voice. Did we learn nothing from the last student?” 

“They are willful and strong,” Arngeir spoke. “They care little for the dangers, for they are on a doomed quest regardless.” 

“But what is the cost?” Another signaled. “What does it say of the Greybeards that their last pupils were untrained and unbalanced, rushed through the rituals for a fatal cause?” 

Arngeir sighed. The weight of his entire order, and the dreaded fate of the world, was on his old shoulders. As speaker of the Greybeards, he was ultimately responsible for the final decision. “I am sorry friends, but I care little about our reputation at this point.” 

“What use is there in training warriors who are destined to fail?” the Greybeards signaled in unison with their wrinkled fingers. 

“It is a personal matter of honor and mercy. If they wish to still fight, I wish to help them in any way I can, even if this marks the end of our order.” Arngeir replied. 

The silent members all looked at each other, weighing the actions of their speaker in their minds, and consulting amongst one another. After a few seconds, they returned their gaze to Arngeir. “We will respect your decision.” 

One night, after a long day sparring with Irileth and practicing his whirlwind sprint shout, Arvel had a dream. He thrashed around in the night, and saw images that seemed to almost be real. It was a dream unlike any he had ever had before. 

He had a dream of Sovngarde, the legendary afterlife of the Nords, where brave warriors and valiant souls went to enjoy eternal feasting and fellowship. But it was not a happy dream. He knew it must of been Sovngarde because he immediately felt unwelcome. He walked a strange stone path as the souls of fallen Nords gazed upon him, their bodies surrounded by mist. He was lead to a massive Nordic hall built on an island in the sky. The land fell away as Arvel approached it and the only way to the hall was across a thin bridge made of bones. 

Before Arvel could even attempt to cross the perilous bridge, a giant black dragon appeared out of the mist in the sky and landed on the roof of the hall. Its horrible eyes stared right at him. Arvel froze. He tried to run away, to retreat back into the mist, but he was rooted to the ground in the way that a dream captures a dreamer. 

The dragon moved its neck down so that its head was only a few feet away from Arvel. He was but a small mouse to this beast. Its massive jaw could easily swallow him whole with a single bite. He heard the dragon loudly sniff its prey. For a moment it pulled away, slightly. The nightmarish monster almost looked confused.

The dragon spoke. Each word sent a tidal wave of pain through Arvel’s mind. 

“You are not a dragon, and yet you speak.” It said. Arvel couldn’t speak and still couldn’t move. The dragon’s maw began to open, but It spoke once more. “So they will fight anyway, good. I will enjoy my revenge more if they struggle.” 

“Prepare to die, elf.” The dragon pounced. It ripped him to shreds with its teeth and claws. 

Arvel could still feel the dragon's rage and violent attack as he was shaken awake. He opened his bloodshot eyes to Irileth’s concerned face. 

“You’ve been tossing and turning all night. You're covered in sweat. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

Arvel had to take a few moments to catch his breath and make sure his body was still alive. “I had a horrible nightmare, a dragon talked to me and then killed me. It just felt so real. It was terrifying.”

That morning, Arvel recounted his dream to Arngeir. Arvel didn’t recognize the dragon from his dream, but Arngeir knew it from the ancient lore. 

“It was Alduin, speaking to you through a dream. He knows that you are here.” 


	13. World-Eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alduin bears down his mighty rage against the fledgling students of the Voice at High Hrothgar. Paarthurnax speaks with Arvel and Irileth. He gives them guidance and hope, however distant it may be. A new power is crowned on the sundered mountain of Kyne and the true nature of a rebel king's villainy is revealed.

_The world quaked and trembled. It stood on the thin edge of a knife, ready to plunge into the deep._

_Talos, the hero god of men, wandered aimlessly through the mists of Mundus, blind and severed mute by the hands of an assassin, once more. He was no longer Ysmir. His power was stolen and he was not a powerful dragon of the north. No, he was just a man, dying._

_Kynareth, the wind goddess of nature, raged against the night and the reckless hate of her enemies, who wished for the ultimate end of her creatures. She wept for the coming battle._

_Akatosh, the dragon god of time, sat quiet and motionless on his golden throne. He waited as time marched unendingly towards the end, once more. He was golden and unflinching._

_But his son, the World-Eater, wakes._

_The Wheel turns upon High Hrothgar, and its Final Dragonborn._

The sun plunged into a mournful sky, stuck by a red color of shame and regret on a human face. The clouds of dark smoke had stopped rising all across the land, and for a moment the air was clear. The dragons appeared to have stopped terrorizing the villages and towns of Skyrim. They had been silent now for several days. But the Greybeards knew in their hearts what was coming. Arngeir gazed out into the cloudy afternoon sky and communed with Kynareth, whom he called Kyne and the Sister Hawk. Her veil was the darkness of a coming storm cloud off in the distance. For the first time in his long years as leader of the Greybeards, he heard no real answer from his Goddess. He only felt the faint mist of rain. It calmed his spirit. He was ready. 

He had spoken to his two students and friends before he went out into the courtyard to pray. He gave them one last task and lesson, with a silent member of the Greybeards to accompany them. They were to make the dangerous trek up to the highest peak of the Throat of the World. They needed to meet with the fifth and final member of the Greybeards while they still had time. 

He hoped they would see wisdom and love before the end. The speaker of the Greybeards breathed deeply, for he would need all the power of his voice today. The two other remaining members of his order, Wulfgar and Einarth, gathered behind him and began to pray. 

Meanwhile, Arvel and Irileth trudged through deep snow. Arvel silently spoke a curse against Arngeir for making him take all of his blasted gear on this journey. His damn shield clanged heavily on his back as he walked. He was worried. Ever since he had told Arngeir about his dream Arngeir had grown silent and distant. Arvel had grown to stubbornly appreciate Arngeir’s wisdom and calming words. They, along with Irileth’s constant support, had soothed his pain, at least a little. He was frustrated that now the old master would only say that they were just to continue their training while he consulted with a previously unmentioned fifth member of the monastery that lived at the top of the mountain. How anyone could live for long at the peak of the tallest mountain in Tamriel was beyond him.

Before they left, he and Irileth agreed that the monks weren’t telling them the whole story. Something was deeply wrong. They still had a long way to go in their training, and yet Arngeir said this was the last trial. As she climbed the path, Irileth began to realize that Arvel’s dream had been a sign of doom. She just couldn’t tell when it was to strike them down. Perhaps the world would end today, she thought. Arvel turned to her, smiled, and made some joke about Nords and the cold. She was glad that he was by her side, at least. 

At certain points along the journey upward they had to climb sheer vertical rock faces, just to continue on their path. The elderly Nord monk showed no emotion as they made their journey and he was completely silent save that every few minutes the mountain would boom with his voice. He shouted into the sky “ _Lok Vah Koor!”_ They were the dragon words for sky, spring, and summer. Every time he unleashed his voice the path ahead of them, dominated by a raging blizzard and swirling ice, would clear and they could continue. Before they had left on their hike up the mountain face, Arngeir had called the monk traveling with them by name. He was Borri. Arvel noticed it was the first time Arngeir had ever told them the names of the other Greybeards. 

They climbed up one last ridge and walked under a natural archway of foreboding frozen rocks. There was no more mountain to climb. Arvel and Irileth could barely breathe in the deadly thin air, but Borri seemed unphased by the incredible altitude. Just as Arvel thought he was going to pass out, he stepped forward and felt strong and calm again. They walked over a mostly flat surface at the peak of the mountain and suddenly the icy swirling wind became a cool breeze. The air wasn’t warm, but it also didn’t bite like the dead of winter. 

The two Dunmer looked up and saw the face of a dragon. They drew their weapons but Borri motioned for them to stand down. The beast sat comfortably perched atop a large crumbling wall of stone, the same make as the one Arvel encountered in the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow. He was massive, grey, and scarred all along his body. His claws and teeth were chipped and weathered. Suddenly, he spoke. Arvel instinctively braced for death but the words weren’t out of a nightmare. They were kind and softly uttered. They were the words of a friend. 

“ _Drem Yol Lok._ Greetings, _wunduniik…_ wanderer. I know you two as Arvel the Swift and Irileth the Protector. I am Paarthurnax, the grandmaster of the Greybeards.” Arvel was stunned, especially since the dragon seemed to be smiling. “It has been so long since I held _tinvaak_ with a stranger, and longer still since I have spoken to worthy students of the Way of the Voice. Please, I beg of you, let us speak.” Paarthurnax continued. 

“I wasn't expecting you to be a dragon.” Irileth was the first to respond. Arvel just stood there, slack jawed. 

“I am as my father, Akatosh, made me. Other Greybeards keep me a secret to the world, they are very protective of me. _Bahlaan fahdonne_."

Arvel found his words. “Why did Arngeir tell us to come up here? Are you some kind of tamed dragon that teaches these monks?”

The dragon heartily laughed so loud that he closed his eyes and rocked the wall he stood upon. The sound echoed throughout the land from the tallest mountain. “Haha! You misunderstand and understand much, my friend. No _joor.._ No mortal, could contain me. I contain myself. No day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature. _Zin krif horvut se suleyk_ . Honor is fighting the lure of power. I believe I have overcome my evils only through meditation and long study of the Way of the Voice. But I know your terror. _Onikaan ni ov dovah_. Wisdom is not trusting a dragon.” 

“So we’re not supposed to trust you, but also listen to your wisdom?” Irileth asked.

The old dragon nodded to Borri’s worried face, and then turned back to his students. “ _Krosis_. I am sorry if I confuse you. We have little time and I should not delay. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech. I could not let myself resist. Not this time.”

“Why live alone on a mountain if you love conversation?” Arvel had to ask.

“ _Evenaar Bahlok_ . There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed. _Dreh ni nahkip_ . Discipline against the lesser aids in _qahnaar_... denial of the greater."

Irileth stepped forward, determined to discover her fate before it was lost to her. “What is your wisdom then?”

“It is less wisdom and more a lesson. _Onikaan Los Vonun_ , the truth is not always easily revealed. The eldest, my brother, will soon return to this mountain. Had we more time, perhaps you could have used your joined voices and talents to defeat him, at least for a few centuries. But he will strike today, along with all his _Kendov_ , his warriors risen from their hollow graves. I do not know your destinies, but I know it is not to have my blood, and without that you cannot win. Perhaps the gods have decided now is the moment of the fall, but I can not truly accept that. My father is not blind. This time, however, the World-Eater’s voice has just proven to be stronger than mine. _Krosis Alduin_ _Dez_. You must find an answer to these paradoxes of fate elsewhere. Go to Windhelm, the haunted city by the ghostly sea. There you will hopefully find another worthy teacher.” 

The two students fell silent. 

“I know this is grave news, and I wish above all else I had more time to speak with you. You are brave souls. You remind me of my friends who were taken from me by claw and age, those heroes in the days long past who defeated Alduin and cast him adrift on the winds of time. They are heroes only I truly remember.” 

“You mean Alduin, who is your brother apparently, is going to attack High Hrothgar… today?” Arvel looked down the mountain and saw the monastery, now a small figure just peeking out from below the clouds and fog. “But what about Arngeir and the Greybeards! What about our training in the voice! I finally found the only Nord adult I could ever truly stand! Why didn’t he tell us!” 

“We thought it was best this way. I am sorry.” Paarthurnax lowered his head. 

“So we are truly doomed then? How are we even supposed to get to Windhelm? We could never scale down this mountain in a single day.” Irileth collapsed to her knees, defeated. 

“No my friend, your doom is only when you decide it. I have learned that much over many years. Borri will help you get far away from here. He is about to call another dragon, but he is not one of Alduin’s soldiers. He will guide you away from this battle.” Paarthurnax silently hoped his words were true. It was a desperate gamble. 

Borri shouted the name “ _Odahviing_ ” into the sky. The name meant winged snow hunter in the dragon tongue. 

Arvel kneeled next to Irileth. He did not want to leave Arngeir to die. He gazed into Irileth’s eyes as he said “I will stay, I want to fight Alduin.” Irileth looked up at him and held his rough, grey face, gently. “No you won’t, Sera. This is the one time we must run. The world cannot end this day.” 

Paarthurnax sighed deeply. “You show wisdom beyond telling, Irileth.” 

A red dragon came flying in from the darkening sky. He landed behind the two Dunmer students. The dragon spoke in his native tongue, “I only do this out of my hatred for your brother, old one.” Arvel could not decipher it, but Irileth had studied enough of the dragon language to understand the message. 

“As it always has been, young hunter.” Paarthurnax replied to his fellow in the dragon tongue. He then switched to the common language of Tamriel to address his last students. “This young _dovah_ , Odahviing, will fly you to Windhelm, and away from the prying eyes of doom. It will buy you time, at least.”

The two Dunmer took one last glance at High Hrothgar, their home and refuge for the last few months. Arvel hugged Irileth, hard. Then they approached Odahviing. 

Arvel turned back to Paarthurnax. “Wait so we’re supposed to ride this thing?” 

Odahviing snarled. “I have a name, _joor_.”

Arvel turned back to the harsh and deadly looking dragon. “Sorry! Just a little confused, that’s all. Nice dragon! Please don’t eat me.”

Irileth laughed through her tears. “Of all the times, Arvel. You really know how to piss off everyone you meet.” 

“Yes, he does. You are lucky the old one treasures mortals so much, elf.” Odahviing moved his large torso and wing down so that his two passengers could climb on to his scaled back. 

A roar came from the depths below. Then came another, from the darkness above. Then came another, far off in the stormy clouds that had encircled the mountain. Then came a chorus of voices, from every single angle, all screaming Paarthurnax’s name. 

Paarthurnax flexed his grey and torn wings, readying himself for battle. “It is time to leave, young hunter.” 

Arvel and Irileth held onto the red dragon as tight as they could. Odahviing soared into the sky and the two land bound mortals suddenly saw the land the way the dragons did. Arvel the Swift looked back. He had never felt so wrong to leave a battle.

“Goodbye, mountain.” He lamented

The sky opened up into a fiery ring high above the Throat of the World. A great black dragon, youthful in his rage but old in his hatred, came screaming down from the sky as Nirn turned dark and cold. 

Below the peak of the Throat of the World, High Hrothgar swarmed with the figures of dragons. There were hundreds of them. Red, white, blue, green, yellow, and so much more. There was no more sky. Arngeir, Wulfgar, and Einarth did not flinch at their attack. A massive wall of sound, fire, purity met the advance of monsters from the dead. For a few minutes, there was no other sound in the entire world. Every corner of Tamriel heard the sound of battle as the Greybeards fought the dragons with their own tongue and weapon. For every Greybeard, ten dragons fell. Massive lifeless winged figures fell all the way down the mountain and back into the realm of men. Still, it was not enough. 

Up above, Alduin debated his brother. It was the debate of destiny he had dreamed about for so many tens of thousands of years. He had fallen so many times for this moment. The elder brother could barely contain his words as he spit them with hate and despair. It was if the very land and world screamed at Paarthurnax. The words were cruel and the debate was a battle to the death. Borri, for a few moments, screamed with the heart of a dragon before he fell into the snow. 

Paarthurnax screamed back at his foe. He did not have time to mourn his friends. He held Alduin, his own brother, at bay. He just had to hold, at least long enough for Odahviing to fly safely away. Once Paarthurnax could sense that the young hunter had flown far into the distance, he began to crack under the dark rage of Alduin. 

The great black dragon revelled and laughed as Paarthurnax broke. He could tell the end was near. He screamed “Finally! Ancient and broken! Spineless Brother of mine! My claws to your withered neck!!! I should have killed you at the beginning of our age! When you were still young and able to fight like I am!”

Paarthurnax still had strength in his bones. “I have no desire to speak with you, yet I must. You misunderstand your power and kingdom, Alduin! This mortal land has not yet shown its full potential! Our ancestors will not forgive you! They do not wish this fate upon this land! I am your kin! Listen to me!”

A scream came from the ending world. Alduin's voice tore and broke with his words, as if they were so terrible he could barely speak them. But he loved it. “Ah, you are wrong, you weak wyrm in the dirt. I know exactly what our father wishes of me!!!” A wall of blue fire enclosed the highest point in Tamriel. Blue fire met the red flame of Paarthurnax. It was not enough.

A few moments later the sounds and color of battle slowly died from the peak of the Throat of the World. The younger brother fell from the mountain top and landed on the destroyed monastery below, built to honor his wisdom. 

Paarthurnax lay dead and broken at the feet of Alduin. The great black dragon and elder brother, covered in the ancient blood of his rebellious sibling, rose from the flames of the sacred center of peace and guidance. He perched himself on the burning ruins and bathed in the death of his enemies. The Greybeards would make a fine feast in the mists of the haunted husk of Sovngarde. Alduin was especially keen to enjoy his next meal in the land of the dead. He would soon transport himself through the realms of life and death, and eat the souls of honored mortals who lived in paradise. No longer would mortals enjoy salvation. It was the gift from his father that he treasured most. As he consumed the souls of the dead, he consumed the soul of the world. But still, the dragon waited. He had one last task before he left the sundered mountain of Kyne. 

Out of the fog of snow and ash, a man appeared. He did not dare to be late. He trudged through the snowy steps to High Hrothgar with his head down and eyes closed. He knew the way from long years and experience. His black cloak wore heavy on his shoulders, and his ancestral war axe clanked idly at his side. His armor wore the emblem of the bear, one of Kyne’s favorite creatures. He approached the dragon and the dead beast laid before it. He looked up and saw Paarthurnax’s dead, kind eyes, but then he quickly snapped his head back down to hide his face from Alduin. He knelt in front of the burning last steps to High Hrothgar.

“I am the end of the world and the consumer of souls. One day, your soul will be mine. Do you understand that?” The dragon spoke to his supplicant in the dragon tongue. It was a fluent and beautiful speech of the harsh words that very few mortals could even attempt to replicate, but it was still easily understood. 

“I know that you are a dragon who remains true to their word.” The reply was in the same language but the man did not speak as elegantly as Alduin. He was guttural and imprecise, but he spoke well enough to please the murderous monster. The man did not bring his gaze to the dragon as he spoke. He stared at the cold dead ground. There was no going back now. 

The dragon reared back his massive head, and shouted the chant of the dead and the slain Greybeards. Every word struck the man like a sword stabbing into his heart, but the dragon would not let him die. He wanted the man to feel the pain of death over and over again. It was one last piece to complete the payment for power. 

Miles away, high in the skies of Tamriel, Arvel and Irileth heard the chant as it shook the already trembling world. On the back of Odahviing they heard the unnatural call of the Dragonborn. It was a crime against existence. The wind tried to shift and destroy the words of power, as if it was an eagle trying to stop a hurricane. 

The words were “ _Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Bormahu, naal suleyk do Krongrah, ahrk naal suleyk do Gahrotjun. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”_

The words meant “Long in sorrow has waited the Stormcrown, with no worthy head to rest on. By our Voice we give it now to you, Dragonborn, by the power of Akatosh, by the power of conquest, and by the power of the Emperor’s light. You have become now Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Hearken to it.” 

“Rise, _my_ _Dragonborn_.” Alduin spoke now in the common tongue.

The soul of a dragon so ancient its age had been lost to time burned away from the body of Paarthurnax. It swirled in the air and came into the hands and body of the kneeling man. He opened his eyes in disbelief and terror. 

He was Ulfric Stormcloak, the heir to Tiber Septim’s bloody crown, and he rose to his feet.


	14. Cornerclub by the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel and Irileth travel to Windhelm to continue their training. They met an old friend who has many amazing tales to tell. They find shelter in the Grey Quarter. Arngeir leaves a few gifts for his last two students.

Odahviing dropped off Arvel and Irileth a ways down the road to Windhelm, behind a bend of rock and snow burdened trees so that the prying eyes of Nords and Stormcloaks couldn’t see them. 

“This is as far as I can take you. You’re on your own.” The dragon said, after his two mortal charges climbed off his back with all their gear and landed on the cold ground. 

“Do you think anyone got out of there alive?” Arvel hopelessly asked. 

“No. It does not bring me joy that Paarthurnax has fallen. He was a frustrating old  _ dovah _ , but I at least respected him. Alduin’s power does not command respect. It only inspires hatred and fear. I do not look forward to his day of conquering.”

“But you’re going to just leave us here to die, as Alduin consumes the world.” Irileth turned her back to the dragon, and began down the path to Windhelm. 

“Yes, I am. You know my name, that is all the aid you will receive from me.” The dragon launched into the sky. In moments he was far away into the clouds, where neither Arvel nor Irileth could see him. 

“I think I might have liked these dragons better when they didn’t talk.” Arvel mused.

“That Paarthurnax was alright I think, but everything he said was some kind of blasted riddle.” Irileth kept her keen eyes to the morning sky as they walked, “I wish he had said to go to any other city than Windhelm. The Nords there are some of the worst in all of Skyrim. Even Balgruuf felt unwelcome when he visited, and he always hated traveling there for diplomatic meetings or feasts.

Arvel had to ask. “How did you end up serving as a Huscarl to a nordic Jarl anyway? I never asked.”

“You know how it is. All of us Dunmer scraped together a new life after the Red Year. I took it hard, and drifted throughout Tamriel for years until the coming of The Great War. Me and Balgruuf fought together against the Thalmor, and he saved my life more than once. When he became Jarl, I joined him at his court in Whiterun. I owed him that much.” 

“You at least took it better than me. I was still a drifter until only a few months ago. I was a thief and a graverobber. I never had much money, and I couldn’t let myself stay in one place for too long.” 

“I can’t imagine your ancestors were pleased with that choice of profession.” 

“They were mostly nordic tombs, I’m sure they don’t mind that much.” 

“And that’s how you got caught up in this! With that blasted dragonstone Farengar said you found.”

“Yeah. I drifted right into the end of the world. It’s been very enjoyable so far.”

“Well, at least you’re the one who found it. I would have hated to drag some short sighted Nord or any other arrogant hero type all the way up that damn mountain.”

Arvel laughed. “Thanks, Irileth.”

“So what in Oblivion are we going to do when we get to the city?” 

“Fuck do I know. Until now you’ve been the one with all the plans.”

“That was before like a thousand dragons came down from the sky and destroyed everything. I got nothing now. We haven’t even been in civilization for months. I have no idea what’s happened.”

“Well in that case I think I actually have a plan.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“An old friend of mine runs a cornerclub in the Grey Quarter. I bet we could stay there.”

“Please don’t say this is the guy I’m thinking of.”

Arvel’s face made a smug smile. “Oh yeah it’s totally him.” 

Ambarys Rendar poured out two mugs of sujamma, freshly imported from Solstheim, for his two new guests. He was moderately famous across Skyrim's Dunmer refugee community as the man who got away with sneaking a live sabre cat into Ulfric Stormcloak’s palace. Several of the guards were badly injured and it was rumored that the attack had forced Ulfric to fight with only his axe and a bed sheet covering his body. Windhelm’s guards gave up trying to find the culprit after almost a year long search. With the dragons burning down villages and the civil war heating up, everyone mostly forgot about it.

Except for Ambarys, who regaled almost every Dunmer customer he had with the long tale. He embellished the story wildly, so now the sabre cat had turned into a dragon, and Ulfric fought naked. Despite his constant bragging, no Dunmer dreamed of outing him to the guards. The residents of the Grey Quarter didn’t have much, but they took care of their own. 

Ambarys of course told the story again to Arvel and Irileth, despite their constant protests. This time he focused on the cowardice of the guards and the tiny stature of Ulfric’s member. 

Finally he finished his tale. “So anyway what brings you two to Windhelm? I hope it's to pay up some on your drink tab here, Arvel.”

“That was years ago!” Arvel laughed.

“I have a better memory than Azura herself. I’ll never forget!” Ambarys poured out another drink for his friend. Then he turned to Irileth. “Anyways who’s this then? You find yourself a girlfriend in a nordic tomb again?”

Irileth turned to Arvel and shook her mug at him. “You found a girlfriend in a tomb? Was she dead? Oh! Was she a draugr?” 

Arvel turned red in the face. “That was years ago! She was a perfectly alive Wood Elf woman, why is that so strange? You run into people all the time while graverobbing.”

“Did you fall in love after grabbing the same long lost artifact at the same time? Or did you both fall into the same trap hole and decide that there was nothing else to do?”

Arvel turned away. “Boethiah’s ass you’re all just jealous.”

“I think I like your new friend, Arvel!” Ambarys and Irileth cheered. 

The two adventurers tried to make themselves at home in the dusty attic room of the Cornerclub that Ambarys provided them. Irileth made note of the casually hidden Imperial Legion armor in a few crates down the hall. 

They went through their things that they managed to pack during their trip to the peak of the Throat of the World. It seemed Arngeir had secretly left a few gifts for his last students. Irileth discovered a strange amulet of Kyne. It was very different from the ones she had seen before at the Temple in Whiterun. This one seemed ancient, and radiated with powerful magical energy. It came with a note, written in the common tongue. It said “to help you continue your training in the voice. You have made amazing progress. I am proud.”

Arvel dug around in his bag and found a strange scroll. He unfurled it and frustratedly sighed. “It’s an old damn map of a land I can scarcely recognize, and an inscription in the dragon language. Fucking Arngeir, that crazy old man, if he wanted me to read something he should of written it in the common tongue.” 

“Just read it out loud, Arvel. I can figure it out. I actually paid attention to what the Greybeards taught us.” Irileth said from across the room. 

“Fine, fine! It says ‘ _Neh_ _gahvon_ _vothnid_ _aan krif_.’”

Irileth thought for a moment. “Some of those words are being used weird and it doesn’t sound like the normal flow of dragon speech, but I think it means something like ‘never give up without a fight.’”

“Oh.”

"I can still hear the shouts he and the other Greybeards made when Alduin attacked."

"Me too. Somehow it sounded beautiful, while also being terrifying."

"What was that line he always said? When he was trying to get us to meditate?"

"Sky above, voice within."


	15. A Council of Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The powerful Daedric rulers of Oblivion gather for one of their fantastically horrible parties while High Hrothgar lies in ruin. Sanguine, the host and prince of debauchery, takes council with the Mad God. Hermaeus Mora sends a new and unusual representative to the party of demons. The prince of Dawn and Dusk reveals her hand.

Sanguine, the prince of revelry and debauchery, hosted as he always did. He made sure his grand party deep within the folds of Oblivion was chaotic and inviting. Mehrunes Dagon, the prince of destruction and change, was a horrible and rude guest at the festivities, as he always was. Nocturnal, the prince of thieves and shadow, refused to attend the gathering as she always did. It was no surprise, but she was still cordially invited. Sanguine secretly hoped she would come. Hermaeus Mora, the prince of fate and secrets, sent an emissary in his stead, as he always would to these gatherings. It was very prudent. Vaermina, ruler of dreams and nightmares, hated Mora with a violent passion, as she always did since the beginning of time. She drank sweet ale with Sanguine at the head of the feasting table. They discussed their latest exploits and most recent adventures while they continued their meddling with the sorry affairs of mortals, as they always did.

The host of demons partied on, for no specific reason, as the far away monastery of High Hrothgar burned. They argued, drank, danced and drank some more in a beautiful misty grove. It was one of Sanguine’s favorite realms in his collection of myriad pocket planes and pleasure worlds. The soft, multicolored lighting of lanterns and candles illuminated the gardens that Sanguine himself planted. 

A diverse crew of other demons attended the party. The Mad God, also known as Sheogorath, the Daedric prince of madness, the Skooma Cat, or just old Sheo, was there. He told wild jokes and stories that entertained Sanguine and his guests. He appeared as a dapper gentleman with a fine grey beard and a fine dwarven claymore over his shoulder. He was dressed in the traditional motley of a royal jester, with red, yellow, and purple colors. Vaermina looked at him with scorn and a tiny grain of respect. Hircine, prince of the hunt, judged an archery contest for the other demons. Boethiah, the prince of plots, was winning the contest as she always did, with Mephala, the webspinner, trailing closely behind. The contest was not at all fair and the bullseye was painted on a straw effigy of Malacath, the prince of the scorned, because he was the only target all the guests could agree on. Malacath himself was of course not invited, as he always was. He did not mind. He was focused on ruling over his lands and people. He did have time for idle entertainment. 

Mora’s representative was a strange man in a faded golden mask. He was different from the usuals that Mora brought to these events, but also not totally unlike the ones that came before. He did not speak and Sheogorath joked that he smelled terrible, like the grave itself or maybe rotten cheese. Through small slits in his mask a pair of glowing pale blue eyes laid still. 

After a long period of revelry, arguments, fights, and boasting, Sanguine proposed a toast. “To the mortal souls we crave and enjoy! Let them never cease their lives of amusement and stupidity!” The toast was met by a hearty cheer from most of the guests, but a Dremora in black armor with slick black hair and yellow skin had to calm Lord Dagon down as he threatened to destroy the entire party in anger, presumedly over some perceived slight. 

The princes eventually began to leave. They returned to their plots, monsters, worshippers, and realms. They slowly left until only Sheogorath and Sanguine remained. The unlikely duo plotted and schemed once they were finally free of prying ears. 

“I always forget how wonderfully horrible these parties are, Sam.” old Sheo said.

“I always forget how insane and confusing you are, Sheo.” Sanguine replied. 

"Do you think any of them had any suspicions? They seemed to not even notice Hermy’s old doof, the one he’s kept locked away in some sock drawer all these years. Very rude of them don’t you think?”

“Yes, although I saw Dagon’s little lackey eyeing him. That one has always been a little trouble. That ass Dagon trusts him too much.”

“Perhaps the others are just too wrapped up in their own affairs to understand, or perhaps they all suspect that it's one of us causing this mayhem. It would not be an unfair assumption.” 

The prince of feasting made a grand sarcastic gesture out of a courtly bow. “Sheo, you are terrifying when you make sense. Please, stick to joking about cheese for a while so I can calm down.” 

“If you insist, Sam. You never remember me, old friend. We'll meet again, at the agreed upon time. I will certainly be late and you will be early, like a fool. Be sure to bring the cheese and the dragon.” 

Before Sanguine could question him any longer about his strange words, the Mad God disappeared into the mist and travelled back to his own plane of Oblivion. Sanguine, known as sam to his friends, wondered if it was wise to work with the Mad God. Vaermina and Hircine certainly advised him against it, saying no one could trust the prince of madness. But he had schemes that went beyond the plots of his contemporaries, and he needed the Mad God in order to fulfill his dreams. Sheo was powerful and could defeat any enemy. Sanguine had seen it first hand. 

Soon one of Sam's other realms called to him. It was a lovely pocket of his worshippers that were celebrating his image. As he strode out of the misty grove to leave, he felt a presence behind him. He should of ran, he should of fought, but he had to stay.  The figure of a beautiful, red eyed, Dunmer woman appeared before him. She had a stare in her eyes that could cut steel. Sanguine recognized Azura, prince of Dawn and Dusk. She was certainly not against directly interfering with the fundamental destiny of the world. Sanguine should not have been surprised at her presence. She was amazing and cryptic in her words, just like she always was. 

She said “I know.”


	16. The Escape from the Ashes of Helgen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A retelling of the attack on Helgen from different points of view. General Tullius tries to save the townspeople and his soldiers, but so much is burned before he can even act. Ulfric Stormcloak and his bodyguards, two nords named Ralof and Tancred, flee the moment they have the chance. On the way back to Windhelm, Ulfric is given an offer he has to accept.

The rebel, Ulfric Stormcloak, ran for his life as the dragon from his nightmares burned the town of Helgen around him. The beast seemed familiar and he swore he had seen it once before, but he couldn't place it. Just a moment ago Ulfric’s life was forfeit, as he was lined up for the headsman’s block, but now perhaps he could stage his escape. He would live to fight another day. His loyal bodyguards, Ralof and Tancred, ran with him. They ran up into a ruined tower to escape the dragonfire. 

Meanwhile, General Tullius of the Imperial Legion desperately tried to rally his men and defend the town. He watched loyal soldiers that he had known for years turn into heaps of ash. He had seen so much in all of his years in service to the Empire, but nothing compared to this. Even the dreadful Thalmor could not inflict this amount of destruction. A moment ago he was determined to see Ulfric’s head roll away from a lifeless body. Now all he cared about was getting his troops and the townsfolk out of the dragonfire. He didn’t care why the dragon was attacking, he just wanted it dead. 

Tullius and the few soldiers he could muster around him cut through the burned debris of what was once a home. He looked up and saw the spells of Legion battlemages bounce off the hide of the flying beast. Ahead of him stood a nord child, frozen in fear. Tullius called out to the boy, but he would not move. The dragon landed right in front of its helpless prey. Tullius realized the kid was probably no older than his own grandson. He leapt forward and heard his legate shout behind him. Without thinking he grabbed the child roughly by his shirt and threw him behind a mound of crumbling stone. He then dove in behind him as a blast of dragon fire roared above them.

Tullius’ legate charged into battle once the fire blast halted. She attempted to drive her sword into the beast’s head. Instead she was swatted away like a fly. Her lifeless form collapsed into the rubble of a burning house. Very quickly Tullius realized that there was no way they were going to harm this beast. He got up and saw the body of who he guessed was once the boy’s father. The boy ran up to the body, crying. 

The general had to scream as loud as he possibly could to get over the sound of battle and roaring flames. “Legion! Townspeople! Into the keep NOW!!! We’re leaving!!” His usually steely cold voice became a raging wave of thunder. 

He picked up the boy. “What’s your name kid?”

“Haming.”

“You’re not gonna die here, Haming. Let’s go!” He picked the boy up and threw him over his shoulder. He charged through the flames and linked up with the rest of his Legion. For a few minutes, General Tullius forgot the rebel Ulfric Stormcloak ever even existed. 

Around the burning scene of what was once the headsman and the chopping block, Ulfric Stormcloak’s ancestral war axe lay dangerously on the ground. Tancred saw it and knew what he had to do for his liege and commander. 

In the tower, Ulfric and his fellow rebels tried to quickly determine what route they should take to escape. Almost all tracks out of the town were collapsed or soaked in flames, but part of the walls had given way to form a gap leading to the snowy forest outside. The rebels knew there was probably no other way out, at least for them. They charged out of the tower and desperately ran for their freedom. 

Tancred ran back into the destruction instead. He dove in and grabbed Ulfric’s axe. The weapon had been in the Stormcloak family for countless generations, and Ulfric would have been enraged to see it lost or worse, captured by the Imperials. When Tancred picked it up his hands were roasted by the hot steel. The precious metal burned horrible scars into his palms, as if he had committed a crime against the Gods with his action. He ignored the pain as best he could and sprinted back over to join his companions fleeing the burning ruins. 

The rebels didn’t dare stop running until they were miles and miles away from Helgen. Ralof knew the country well, and successfully led them through the mountains and back into friendly territory. They traveled far through the beautiful birch forests of the Rift, the southeastern most hold of Skyrim, and camped for the night under the shade of a rocky outcropping not far north from the village of Ivarstead. By now the axe was cool, and Tancred gave it back to his lord. Ulfric thanked him for his service. 

When the night was darkest, Ulfric stood guard. He insisted that he take second watch so that his two bodyguards could finally get some sleep after the horrors they had seen. After a few hours, the shade of a whisper called to him. It told him to journey down to the river, by a clearing of trees. The voice was in the dragon tongue. Ulfric was terrified of what that meant, but he also knew that he couldn’t ignore it. He walked slowly down to the spot. 

The dragon of his nightmares, and from the fires of Helgen, appeared from the shadowy sky, hovering above him. It spoke with an ancient shout so that its words could only be heard by the intended listener. Such was the dragon’s skill with voice. “You have the conquering heart of a dragon, _joor_ , but not its blood.” 

“What do you want with me, dragon?” Ulfric had to strain his knowledge of the dragon language to understand the beast’s words and reply. 

“I believe you have met my brother, an old fool at the top of Kyne's mountain.”

Ulfric’s eyes widened. He knew. “You are Alduin then? You really have returned!”

“Yes, your fellow mortals did not truly kill me. They never could. They only delayed my coming. A small inconvenience. I have been fought many times, but this time I intend to win and complete my destiny.”

“So… the legends are true?”

“Oh yes, little _joor_.” Alduin paused for a moment, thinking over his words. “You know much and very little, Ulfric Stormcloak. You were the last student of those pathetic Greybeards, were you not?”

Ulfric looked down in shame. “We did not part on good terms.”

“That is why we are speaking, ant. You delved into lost knowledge that they could not appreciate. You should have been praised, but they are weaklings that don’t understand even the fabric of ambition. You found power even I do not possess, deep with the bowls of the Reach. You went off to war while they sat idly in their so called peace.”

“How do you know so much about me, dragon? Is this some kind of trick?”

“I have known you for a very long time, little _joor_.” 

“You speak in riddles, just like Paarthurnax.” 

“Do not mention my brother again, or this conversation will turn into a debate. Do you understand?”

Ulfric gulped. “I do.”

“Then listen. I have also stolen knowledge that was once beyond my grasp. In this we are one in the same. Many Lifetimes ago I would have never thought to give a disgusting _joor_ this task, but I have changed. You will be my champion. My first dragon priest of a new age. You will destroy my enemies and help secure my destiny.”

The rebel mustered up every last ounce of bravery, honor, and virtue in his soul. “Why would I help you? Your return is the beckoning cry that marks the end of the world. Every true nord knows this. You bring only death. The world will crumble under your wings. I cannot be a part of that.”

Alduin lowered himself so he was only inches away from Ulfric, his prey. “I said I have changed, child of the dirt. Once I was single minded in that goal, now I see that it is better to feast off the world... than destroy it.” 

The dragon’s next words made Ulfric’s heart almost stop. The dragon truly was a creature ripped from his dreams. “I will make you _Dovahkiin_. That is my power now. You will be the ruler of Skyrim and beyond. The petty powers of your mortal world mean little to me, but I assure you the Empire and Thalmor will fall. I will give you this, and through me you will conquer the world and shape it in your image. I will also bring death, and it will be a mighty thing to behold. But, so long as you supply me with a bountiful horde of souls to feast upon, I will be satisfied.” 

“How can I trust you?”

“It is not a matter of trust. You will do this, or you will die. Either way I will consume your soul in Sovngarde, but if you make my will a reality, you can mold the world as you wish.” 

Ulfric lowered his eyes to the ground. It was a trap and he knew it. Alduin would surely destroy the world. But it was also all he’d ever wanted. Ever since he was a boy he had dreamed of being the Dragonborn. Him and Talos, his almighty God of battle and valor, would become one with the soul and blood of a dragon. He tried to resist, but he couldn’t. He would fight Alduin’s war. 

“I accept your bargain.”


	17. Rise for the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfric Stormcloak returns to the city of Windhelm, his homeland and capital city. Arvel and Irileth watch as he gives a fiery speech to his troops and citizens. They learn of Ulfric's ascension to the blood of the dragon. Irileth is blindsided by grave news from Whiterun concerning the Jarl and her friend.

Galmar Stone-Fist, the violent and uncompromising leader of the Stormcloak armies, heralded the coming of his friend and lord, Ulfric Stormcloak. The townspeople of Windhelm gathered in a large crowd to see his arrival. Ulfric had been far away on his military campaigns in the swamps of Morthal, but now he had returned. The Dunmer refugees living in the city were far less enthusiastic about the scene than the nords. They were forced to gather far away from everyone else. Arvel and Irileth stood with Malthyr Elenil, a bartender at the cornerclub and a friend of Ambarys. Ambarys himself refused to show. 

Malthyr groaned. “That Galmar is even worse than Ulfric. I hear he refuses to even take prisoners. He just executes them all. Even fellow nords aren’t spared. Rumor is he burned an entire village in the Reach a few years ago, including women and children.” 

“I find that hardly surprising. Some nords will come up with any excuse to kill each other.” Arvel replied.

Irileth noticed Ambarys’ absence. “You don’t think Ambarys is planning another ‘incident,’ do you?”

Malthyr scratched his beard. “I doubt it. He may be a bit over ambitious, but he’s not stupid. With the army back there’s countless guards around Ulfric.”

Arvel yawned. “That’s a shame.” 

Unexpectedly, the stormcloak procession stopped in the town square. Usually Ulfric would head straight for his ancient palace. Something had changed. The guards shifted and made way for him to stand up on a carriage so he could be seen by the entire crowd. 

“Oh gods, please don’t tell me he’s going to give a speech.” Arvel said.

Irileth laughed and lightly punched Arvel in the arm. “Maybe he’ll publicly declare that his member is not as small as all the town gossip says.”

“Ha! Yeah, Ambarys really made that story go around.” Malthyr smiled. 

After a few moments Galmar bellowed into the crowd once more. “Rise for your King! Rise for the High King of Skyrim and liberator of the nords, Ulfric Stormcloak!” 

Irileth crossed her arms. “Doesn’t Ulfric usually style himself as the ‘future High King?’ I guess he could have gotten bolder during all this time.” 

Malthyr dropped his smile. “No, this is new.”

Galmar continued his cry. “Rise for the dragon of the north! Ysmir! Rise for the Dragonborn of legend! Savior of the world!!”

Arvel and Irileth immediately looked at each other in alarm. 

“No, that can’t be. He must be lying.” Arvel tightened his grip around his sword. 

Ulfric climbed up on top of the carriage and waved to a cheering crowd of nords. 

Irileth remembered the chant she heard as they flew away from the ruins of High Hrothgar. The words Alduin shouted into the sky crowned a new Dragonborn. They were still burned into her mind. “Oh, shit.”

The rebel king yelled at the crowd with a grand and confident voice. This was the speech of his dreams. “Galmar speaks true! The dragons have returned to Tamriel and have plagued our lands unchecked! Those Imperial cowards and milk-drinkers have done nothing in the face of the fire! They hide in their castles and pray to Gods that have abandoned them! But I will fight!” His words dripped with the power and anger of a hungry dragon unleashed from its tomb. His voice begged to be feared and echoed. “I will destroy the dragons and the cravens who hide beneath them! I will give you, sons and daughters of Skyrim, freedom!”

He reared back his head and screamed into the sky, “ _ Yol Toor Shul!” _ They were the words for fire, inferno, and sun in the dragon tongue. He inhaled air and exhaled flame. The crowd screamed and gasped as the entire sky was filled with an inferno. 

He returned his gaze to the crowd, even while red fire still curled around his entire body. The carriage he stood on began to burn and his guards had to back away from the flames. “This is the dawn of a new age! With my divinely granted power I can now strike down the Empire! The Gods have favored our cause! I will conquer all who oppose us and our freedom, just as Talos of Atmora did with his thundering voice so long ago! Rise stormcloaks! Rise nords! For Shor! For Sovngarde!” 

The crowd of nords and Stormcloak soldiers erupted into noise. Everyone drew their weapons and banged them against their shields. The entire city of Windhelm became a chorus of mighty steel and rage. 

Even with the noise, Ulfric could still be heard with his powerful Thu’um. “Soon, Whiterun will be free! We will strike down their walls and destroy the Imperial puppets standing behind them! The late Jarl Balgruuf, walking the mists of Sovngarde, will cheer and drink as we smash through the Legion and bring the glory of Talos back to the heartland of Skyrim! We will free them from the tyranny of his brother and purge them of Imperial weakness!” 

“What the fuck! What the hell is he talking about!” Irileth ran forward and pushed her way through the crowd, slamming her fists through enthralled nords.

Malthyr and Arvel followed her. The bartender called out to her. “Jarl Balgruuf died some weeks ago, you didn’t know?”

Irileth froze. “No, we’ve been away.” 

Malthyr made room for them and distracted the soldiers. Arvel reached her and grabbed her hand. He squeezed, hard. “We should go back to the cornerclub!” He yelled over the sound of the crowd and clashing weapons. 

“I wasn’t there to protect him. I should have been there.” 

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

Ulfric’s voice towered over them like a massive wave during a storm. The wave crashed into them and it was all they could hear. The rebel king raised his axe into the air and screamed at the sky. He exhaled fire once more.

Galmar’s booming voice pierced through the crowd. “Rise for Skyrim! Rise for your High King!”


	18. Breaking with Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel and Irileth meet with Brunwulf Free-Winter to learn of Jarl Balgruuf's fate. Now his hotheaded younger brother, Hrongar, rises to the throne of Whiterun. He threatens the fragile stability of the civil war and might play right into the plans of Ulfric Stormcloak. Irileth decides she must protect Balgruuf's children. Arvel finds a book that calls to him.

Arvel and Irileth arrived at the house of Brunwulf Free-Winter, one of the few nords in Windhelm who did not accept Ulfric’s ways and leadership. He tried to help the Dunmer Refugees and Argonian dock workers the best he could. When Malthyr and Ambarys did not have the answers Irileth sought about the situation in Whiterun, they pointed her to him. 

Irileth and Brunwulf sat around his hearth as he prepared a meal of salted beef, leeks, and fresh cold mead. Arvel idly browsed the small ancestral Free-Winter library in the back of the house. It was a collection of tomes gathered over the long years that Brunwulf's nordic clan and ancestors lived in Windhelm. It was admittedly unusual for Arvel to even care about books, but a certain cover called out to him. It was titled _A Dream of Sovngarde_. 

Ever since Irileth had heard the news about Balgruuf’s death, she had been distant and cold. Arvel tried to help her, but very few things could ease the passing of a close friend. They had rested at the Cornerclub for several days now, unsure of what to do. 

Irileth cut straight to the point with Brunwulf. “How did he die?”

“It is unclear. The official story told by Hrongar is that Balgruuf’s son, Nelkir, killed the Jarl with a dagger in his sleep. The boy apparently had always been known to have dark and terrible thoughts in his young mind.”

Irileth stared into the cooking fire burning at the stone hearth. “Nelkir would never do that. He’s just a boy. I’ve known him his entire life.” 

Brunwulf scratched his long and greying beard. “Some people around the tavern here think it was Hrongar who was the killer. I’m not sure what I believe, but it is true that Hrongar got the title of Jarl once his older brother died, since none of Balgruuf’s children were of age. Hrongar’s first act as Jarl was officially siding Whiterun with the Imperials. He believes he is wise and strong, but all he’s really done is play right into Ulfric’s blasted hands. Now that Whiterun is no longer neutral, no one will protest as Stormcloaks invade the city. Instead of conquering it will be liberation.”

He turned to Irileth. “You were his Huscarl right? I saw you when Balgruuf visited for a feast and tournament, many years ago. Ulfric held that celebration for my return from the war. They celebrated me as a hero just because I managed not to die on the long march home.” Brunwulf handed her a bottle of strong mead. He returned to his cooking pot. 

“I was his protector. I failed him. Someone killed him and I wasn’t there to stop their blade.”

“Why were you away? Some mission of the Jarl’s?”

She looked to Arvel in the other room. “No, I was with him.” She smiled softly for a split second. It was so fast that no one could see. 

She then returned her steel gaze to the embers and the fire. “We thought he was the Dragonborn after he took down a dragon outside Whiterun. We traveled all the way to High Hrothgar just to learn that we were wrong. Still though, the monks were kind and took us in. They trained us some in the ways of the voice so that we could better defend our home. I threw myself into it as if it was my destiny. We were there for months, far away from civilization and news of the outside world.”

Brunwulf took a large swig from his drink. “I see. Now damned Ulfric claims the title. Something has changed about him. I’ve never seen him so violent and bloodthirsty. That speech erased all doubts in my mind that Skyrim is now doomed.”

Irileth joined him in heavily drinking. “Not just Skyrim, all of Tamriel. Of all the people to be Dragonborn, he is the worst.”

“So you believe his words? I have seen him shout before. Him breathing fire in the town square did not totally validate his claim, at least to me.”

“I don’t think he was lying, as terrible as that might be. Something horrible happened at High Hrothgar.”

“What? What did the Greybeards say of the coming of the dragons?”

“In short, we’re fucked. We left High Hrothgar not of choice. I think Alduin himself appeared. The last I saw of the monastery, it was in ruins.” 

Brunwulf laughed. “Gods above, we are really doomed then. All the legends I wished were just stories are true. I’m gonna go get us a lot more mead.”

“Get some for me too.” Arvel walked back into the room

“Will do. Be back in a few. Keep an eye on the fire. I’ll head over to Candlehearth Hall.” Brunwulf left them alone in his home. 

Irileth and Arvel sat in silence for a while, watching the calm flames of the cooking fire. 

Arvel contemplated the book he had found. His heart was half sympathy for Irileth and half a need for revenge. Ulfric Stormcloak, the man who kept his kin in merciless poverty, was now blessed with the damned dragon blood. Slowly though, his anger at the state of the world slowly washed away until it was a determined drive for a still moment. He sat down next to Irileth by the fire. “I’m sorry about your friend.” He said. She did not respond. Her eyes did not move.

“I don’t know if this will help but, you helped me when I was a mess at High Hrothgar, so I have to try.”

“Are you going to tell me a stupid heartfelt anecdote now?”

“I might if you keep being rude.”

“Fine.”

He leaned over and hugged her, suddenly. He embraced her the same way his mother had hugged him before their long struggle out of Morrowind. He held her the way a believer held something sacred. She hugged him back. 

“A wise woman once said to me that sometimes you don’t have to listen to get the message.”

“Didn’t I say that after I slapped you?”

“Yeah let’s not focus on that.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

“We’ll get through this, somehow.”

“You really think so?”

“I mean, I kinda have to.”

“I guess that’s a good point.”

A few more minutes passed and Brunwulf returned with the mead. He finished preparing their meal and they ate a fine dinner before they passed out drunk on the floor. 

The next morning Irileth announced her intention to return to Whiterun. Arvel the Swift would continue the quest for a new teacher in Windhelm on his own. They said goodbye at the stables outside the city. It was a sunny and clear day. The air was so empty that one could almost see into the depths of Morrowind, sprawling out to the east on the other side of the Velothi Mountains. 

“I’m sorry that I’m leaving, but I have to go back. I have to protect Balgruuf’s children, especially now that Hrongar sits on the Jarl's throne. Perhaps I can get them out of the city before the Stormcloaks attack. After all that’s happened I certainly owe him that.”

“It’s okay. I understand. I hope you find out the truth and avenge your friend. I guess I’ll work off this strange map that Arngeir gave me.”

“What was that thing he always said? To try and help us meditate?” She chuckled. “You always hated it.”

Arvel gave his best Arngeir impression. “Wind… guide you.” His voice cracked. “I miss that old nord.”

“Me too.”

They hugged once more, and then Irileth mounted her horse that Brunwulf provided. She rode away, steadily picking up speed. She was determined not to stop until she reached Whiterun’s gates. She thought of Nelkir, the Jarl’s troubled son. If she could not save her friend, she would save his family from the darkness that threatened to swallow them whole. The world was ending, but she could not let a child pay for a crime she was certain he did not commit. 


	19. Winter's Cold Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorald Gray-Mane is locked away in the Thalmor prison of Northwatch Keep. Despite his constant prayers, no one comes to rescue him. An unlikely and unexpected event, that goes against every story he's ever known, sets him free. He returns to Windhelm to see Ulfric Stormcloak declare himself as Dragonborn. An old gift from his father appears on the back of Arvel the Swift.

A ragged, desperate, and frail voice said “you will get nothing out of me.”

“I will get everything out of you, dog. You’re not in a position to argue.” The Thalmor interrogator shocked Thorald Gray-Mane once more with a painful wave of lightning bolts. The magic was perfectly cast so that Thorald would feel the maximum amount of suffering without passing out or dying. Still, Thorald did not relent. He would not give the monsters information that would lead to the Thalmor apprehending the rest of his family. It had been weeks now since the Thalmor had captured him and imprisoned him in the refitted fort of Northwatch Keep. Thorald was unsure the true count of days, as each week of torment flowed into the next. 

Eventually the frustrated interrogator cursed something foul in the high elvish tongue and left the room. The elf had been ordered to get information out of Thorald, but he was a textbook example of the famed stubbornness and resilience of the nords. Usually the Thalmor would keep up the questioning for most of the day, but they quit early in anger. 

The first few nights Thorald prayed to Talos that someone would come rescue him. His prayers fell on deaf ears. Then he tried praying to the other gods, but that was just as pointless. It occurred to him that despite the notable rejection of Talos, the Thalmor imprisoning him worshiped almost all the same gods he did. Perhaps they were both praying. Thorald laughed when he imagined Kynareth or Stendarr trying to sort through the conflicting pleas for help. 

He had to guess no one even knew he was imprisoned. His patrol had been ambushed and none save him were left alive. Perhaps still his Stormcloak comrades suspected a Thalmor attack, but none of them could have possibly followed the elves to Northwatch Keep. To all who knew him it was as if he had disappeared from the world entirely. Then he guessed the Imperials probably made up some story about him dying in combat to ease the suspicions of his family in Whiterun. But no, his brother and fellow Stormcloak Avulstein would see through the lies. Surely he would rescue him? 

The horrible weeks dragged on and on. They slowly turned into months and Thorald had doubts that he’d ever see the light of day. The wind of Kyne would never again blow across his face or guide his path. He was just going to be another victim of the Thalmor’s campaign of violence and terror. Had only his Battle-Born neighbors seen what he had seen. They would not stand to support the Empire if one of them were taken away, never to be seen again. The Empire did not protect its people. It kept them locked in tidy cages and killed them when they tried to escape.

That night Thorald dreamed of his ancestors. The Gray-Manes had lived in Whiterun for centuries, and were one of the first clans to settle in the area. They could even trace their roots back to the original Five Hundred Companions that came south from Atmora with Ysgramor, if the records in the mead hall of Jorrvaskr were to be believed. His father, Eorlund, had always wanted him to join the honored ranks of the Companions, but when the war between the Stormcloak rebels and the Imperials started, Thorald could not resist the call. 

In the shadows of a dream he saw the ancient Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns living together in peace and friendship. It was a happy vision. He longed for the days long ago when he was young and played with the Battle-Borns. They all had been such good friends. Now they had all grown up, and were on opposite sides of a bloody war. Before Thorald left for Windhelm, Idolaf Battle-Born told him that if they saw each other on the battlefield, he wouldn’t hesitate to strike him down. Thorald didn’t respond. He could only see the boy he had been friends with so many years ago. 

The next morning the interrogator was late to start the questioning. Thorald was proud, perhaps he had finally gotten inside the head of the monster and forced him to give up. The hours seemed to drag on though, and Thorald began to worry. At one point he swore he could hear the sound of blades clashing and the cries of battle, but he didn’t trust his own mind anymore. 

Several days passed. Thorald desperately needed food and water. He damned the Thalmor to Oblivion. They had just left him to rot, slowly dying from thirst and starvation. It was a bad way to go. 

But then an elf walked into the room. It was as pale as fresh snow, and almost as skinny and malnourished as him. Its eyes were red and lifeless. Its back was distorted and hunched forward. The only way Thorald knew it was an elf was from the pointed ears. Suddenly Thorald realized he was in grave danger. It was a Falmer, a snow-elf of legend. He had heard the stories about them, but he had always assumed they had been tales to scare children.

The Falmer just started pacing around the room, as if he couldn’t decide what to do. He wore armor made of dark chitin. Clearly he knew Thorald was there. Thorald moved his hands in his chains and the Falmer snapped its head to the sound. He guessed that a jagged and chitin sword was a better end than the agonizingly slow death of starvation. The Falmer drew his sword. Thorald closed his eyes. 

He opened his eyes and his chains were broken. The Falmer disappeared, as if it had been a vision in his head the entire time, but he quickly realized however that it was no dream. He looked down and saw the Falmer’s sword on the ground, waiting for him to wield it. His prayers to the gods had been answered by a most unlikely ally. Perhaps the stories he had been told as a boy weren’t completely true. 

The Stormcloak rebel walked slowly out of Northwatch Keep. He found food and water in the hands of dead guards and replenished his strength. He even found a bottle of nordic mead. It was the best drink he had ever tasted. The Falmer raiders let him pass and paid him no mind, as if he wasn’t even there. He tried to tell them thank you multiple times, but clearly the elves did not understand his language. Thousands of years ago, his ancestors had helped Ysgramor slaughter the snow-elves in a mighty and mythical war. He had always assumed Ysgramor was right to do battle with them, but now he wasn't so sure. These Falmer seemed to be taking back their ancient homes. He couldn't blame them for it. It was similar to what he and his comrades were trying to do against the Thalmor and Empire. Problem was Thorald knew enough history to understand that the Falmer had been here first, not the nords. 

He finally left the fort once he could walk more than a few steps at a time. The wind felt like the embrace of a long lost lover. He kissed the snow and dirt when he finally made it outside. In the cold dark of night he gazed at the stars as if it was his childhood home. He cried. He looked back at the fort and saw a Falmer patrolling the gate, with the dead bodies of Thalmor guards beneath him. Slowly Thorald realized that his ancestors were wrong. 

Several weeks later, Thorald finally made it back to Windhelm. He didn’t dare return to Whiterun, not with the Thalmor haunting his every step, though he desperately wanted to see his family again. Every night he was terrified he’d wake up back in chains. His whole body violently cringed at the sight of lightning over Skyrim’s mountains. 

On the way back he walked the road around the base of Kyne’s sacred mountain and tried to leave an offering. He was so happy he was even able to see it again. Before he had set out for his first Stormcloak campaign he left an offering to the Greybeards, hoping beyond hope they would reconsider their stance of neutrality. If anyone could restore peace, it was them. It was a futile effort, but he didn’t regret the trip up and down the 7,000 steps. 

As he walked across the bridge into Windhelm he was welcomed by his Stormcloak comrades. It felt good to be among his fellow soldiers again. Hopefully the Thalmor would have a hard time tracking him down again here. 

He stepped through the gate to see Ulfric atop a carriage, yelling a mighty speech to the citizens of his city. Thorald rubbed his eyes and swore he saw a monster in the place of Ulfric as the Jarl screamed columns of flame into the sky. It was quite a homecoming. 

Thorald saw the Dunmer of the city standing far away from everyone else. They had the same ears as the miraculous and divine Falmer who rescued him, albeit a different color. They even had the same ears as the Thalmor who tortured him, but admittedly not on either side of a monstrous face. 

A Dunmer he recognized charged through the crowd. The Huscarl of Whiterun was easy to spot with her strong red hair. He had always looked up to her bravery and skill during his youth. It was the last person he expected to see. Two fellow elves he had never seen before ran behind her. 

Ulfric’s purging flame cast a bright light on the crowd. One of the Dunmer behind Irileth turned to talk to her. On his back Thorald saw the unmistakable design of the shield his father had made for him, in the mighty heat of the Skyforge. He had left it with the Greybeards, but now it seemed Kyne had other plans for it. 


	20. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irileth returns to the city of Whiterun on the day of Jarl Balgruuf's funeral. Despite the loss of her friend, she is determined to uphold her vow to protect his family, even if it is from itself.

Slowly the ancient city of Whiterun rose from its deep slumber. A few hours after dawn and a light fog covered the lonely hill, nestling Skyrim’s beating heart in a pale embrace. At first glance it looked like it might be a regal citadel, stepping cautiously out from myth. But Irileth’s trained eyes saw through legends, and only saw the signs of long and painful decay. The walls were crumbling in many spots and the first line of outer defenses had been abandoned. Amongst war and dragonfire, Whiterun was a large sacrificial goat for greater beasts. 

She rode by the deserted stronghold of Valtheim Towers and the last bend of the White River. How she desperately wished she had returned to this land under better circumstances. Before Arvel and the dragons, the sight of the high stone of the Jarl’s Keep would have given her a sense of pride, purpose, and even joy. Now there was only shame. Irileth drove her mount forward and quickly galloped to the front gates. 

The streets were frozen silent. The market stall stood empty, even during this usually busy hour when the merchants set up their displays. Irileth climbed up the steps to the wind district and her stomach turned over. There was Balgruuf, her battle-comrade, lifeless atop a procession, leading to the hall of the dead. He was flanked on each side by the people of Whiterun, who watched their beloved leader journey to his final rest. The new Jarl, Hrongar, brother to the slain, carried the body, along with Caius, captain of the city guard, Proventus, the Jarl’s steward, and Olfrid, patron of the great Clan Battle-Born. 

Few noticed her joining the crowd, such was their grief, but once Balgruuf finally passed into the hall of the dead, an old friend beckoned to her. Amren, the former sellsword, hugged her. Irileth was taken off guard. 

“I had assumed you died! Hrongar said you and that Dark Elf thief had perished weeks ago.” He said. 

She looked to the approaching Jarl and his servants. “He was mistaken.”

Now the entire city turned to watch as Jarl Hrongar addressed the former Huscarl. 

“Of all the days… now you return here. We thought you had been slain, along with that false dragonborn that you ran off with.” The Jarl said. 

It only took looking in his eyes to know. Hrongar deserved her blade. She only needed proof. “I return to do my duty to Whiterun, even if it is led by a different man.”

“You speak of duty, yet my brother lies dead. Had you done your duty, he would yet live, elf.” 

She seethed with rage, but she could not fight the truth in his words. As she briefly imagined killing him, a voice whispered in her mind to wait and play for time. She stiffly bowed, though she’d rather rise, and slit his throat. “I... beg your forgiveness, on this day of all days. I was led astray by my mission with the dragonborn, but now I wish to redeem myself, in some small way, by protecting Whiterun once more.”

Hrongar scoffed. “Why should I ever accept your vows, when my brother was so clearly mistaken in keeping them.” 

Proventus intervened. “These are dangerous times my lord, we could always use another blade.” 

Irileth lowered her eyes to the ground and waited with baited breath. 

The Jarl saw the faces of his subjects. “Fine. If you wish to defend Whiterun, defend it. Caius, you can take her. She can patrol the walls at night.” 

Caius did not protest. After everyone left the town square to return to their homes, Irileth journeyed to the hall of the dead. 

Andurs, the priest of Arkay tending the catacombs, did not have the courage to stop her when she went to see Balgruuf. The dead man laid in his tomb with a sword still fresh in his hands. She was left alone with him in the crypt. 

She knelt by his kingly form. Still through the age and horrific death, Irileth could see the man that had saved her in battle. He had brought her back from the brink of ruin. 

“Why did fate _curse_ you like this?” She asked the lifeless body. She wept for her friend for a while, alone in the dusty bowels of Whiterun. 

But then she wiped away her tears. “I couldn’t protect you, but I will protect your son.” She rose, determined. She would have time to grieve, after the war was won. 

A gravel-tongued whisper once again rode on the wind that stirred in the back of her mind. It told her to look for a door within the keep, and a blade that should never have been forgotten. Suddenly she realized she was not alone in the tomb. An old force from mother Morrowind writhed like a snake, ready to fight. 


	21. Gifts from the mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorald Gray-Mane returns to Windhelm and recovers his strength. Quickly he realizes the error of his ways as he watches Ulfric train a new order of Thu'um wielding apprentices. He joins Arvel the Swift on his quest and together they find a long forgotten ghost among the buried dead of the frozen north.

The New Gnisis cornerclub was packed with it’s usual fare. Exhausted Dark Elf laborers found solace in their stiff drinks, happily supplied by the bartender Ambarys Rendar. Arvel the Swift sat alone at an old wooden table, trying to figure out how to read the damn map that Arngeir had given him. His shield stood propped up against an empty chair. 

A Nord walked in. He looked like someone had just thawed him out from an ice sheet. He was blindingly pale, had little meat on his weary bones, and wore a grey ragged beard. The man was not welcome in the bar, but Ambarys Rendar allowed him to stay, so long as he didn’t do anything stupid. Inevitably though, he did just that. 

Arvel did not notice him approach, and nearly spilled his ale all over the map when the man spoke. 

“Your shield, I know it.” He said. He mumbled through his words, as he hadn’t spoken in a real conversation in months. The old scroll on the table drew his eye. 

Arvel was tempted to grab hold of his blade, but he knew Ambarys didn’t like blood to be spilled in the cornerclub. He stayed his hand. “Oh yeah?” 

“It was made by my father, as a gift.”

“It was given to me, as a gift.” Arvel replied. 

“Who presumed to give you this then?”

Arvel decided there was no real reason to lie. “An old man on a mountain. He went by the name of Arngeir and his long grey beard was the stuff of legend. Not like yours, which is more nightmare inducing.” 

Thorald Gray-Mane’s eyes widened. This day just kept getting stranger. “The Greybeards _gave_ you this? Why should I believe that?” 

The fires of Alduin rumbled through Arvel’s head. “We were old friends. They had no need for shields, so they supplied me with this one.” 

“Friends? Ha! And I’m friends with Ysgramor himself. Stole it more like!” 

The firm hand of Ambarys landed on Thorald’s shoulder. “We have no need for angry Nords in our bar. Plenty enough in the city already. Leave. Now.” 

Thorald tried to bat the hand away, but his strength had long since left him. He looked around the cornerclub and realized that there was nothing he could do. He stormed out in shame. 

Arvel shrugged. “What a charming northerner.” 

Ambarys handed him another drink and took another for himself. “Here’s to hoping he doesn’t return with the city guard.” 

The night passed without any invasion of the city guard, and life went on. Arvel still found no way to read his map. The shapes clearly outlined the city of Windhelm, but the text was unreadable. It wasn’t even in the dragon tongue. This was something far more strange and unknown to him. Still, he took comfort in the company of Ambarys, and his other Dunmer kin living in the Grey Quarter. It had been so many years since he left. He didn’t realize how much he had missed his old home. 

Thorald Gray-Mane trimmed his beard and nursed his wounded pride. He regained his strength in the Palace of Kings. After long months of near starvation, he was finally able to eat normally again. The vigor slowly returned to his sword arm, though it would never be what it once was. He was glad to be back among his comrades, but something felt deeply wrong. His fellow Stormcloaks seemed like shades in the night, evil wraiths who had replaced his former friends. In the back of his mind he started to think perhaps most of them had been wraiths all along. 

Ulfric was different than Thorald remembered. The rebel lord was prone to fits of violent rage, more so than ever before. He assumed the new mantle of king, which he slowly twisted into the rank of God, like he was a frost troll smashing a poor man’s skull. His voice was terrifying to behold. Thorald could barely stand to be around him, but Ulfric had unfortunately honored him with the rank of Huscarl for his brave escape from the Thalmor. Now he had to guard the body of the high-king almost all hours of his waking days. 

The king had taken on apprentices, strong and bloodthirsty warriors hand picked from the best ranks of the Stormcloaks. Thorald was offered the privilege to join them, but he gladly used the excuse of his damaged fighting state to get out of it. It gave him some hope that his friend Ralof also declined the so-called honor. 

He had seen war. He did not like it. These men though, zealots one and all, they were the ones Ulfric wanted, they _worshiped_ it. The foremost among them was a young Nord from Winterhold named Ragnar. The lad had barely seen his eighteenth winter, but he was as strong as a sabre cat. His eyes turned heartless and cruel the second he was given the chance to jump into the fray of swords. He rushed towards killing like a youth rushing back home. 

Now, Ulfric taught. Daily he instructed his new apprentices in the ways of the Thu’um. Ragnar in particular took to it well. He didn’t shout, he screamed. The youth inhaled Kyne's air and exhaled fire and wrath. 

Eventually, Thorald managed to get a day off from his duties. He walked down from the Palace of Kings that night and returned to the Grey Quarter. 

Thorald Gray-Mane opened the door to the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Ambarys immediately got up to see him out. Arvel rose and grasped his sword to assist. 

Thorald tried his best to ease their understandable suspicion. He didn't wear his Stormcloak armor. He had abandoned it back in the barracks. A simple iron chest-plate and Ralof's old boots was all he had now. He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not here for the shield. I gave it to the Greybeards long ago. It is no longer mine to claim.” 

Arvel pointed his sword to the man. “Then why are you here.” 

“Your map. The runes on it… I can read them. I wish to atone for my harmful words earlier. You are no thief.” 

The two Dark Elves slowly lowered their guard. “That is none of your business, Nord.” Arvel still kept his weapon ready. 

“It is written in old Atmoran, the language of the ancient Nords. I know it. All Stormcloaks do. Ulfric mandates that we learn it so we can speak without the Imperials knowing what we say.” 

“And why should I trust you on that?”

“Because it’s a map of Windhelm, right? The Atmorans built this city. It makes sense an old map of it would be written in their tongue.” 

Finally Arvel sheathed his blade. He still didn’t trust him, but he also needed answers about the map. He had promised Irileth he’d figure it out. 

The Dunmer tossed Thorald the old scroll while keeping his distance. “Fine, what does it say?” 

Thorald unfurled the ancient guide and quickly looked it over. “It points to an entrance into the old Windhelm catacombs, below the hall of the dead. Something about an old tongue or voice-wielder buried there.” 

Arvel sighed and decided to go against his better judgement. “Take me there.” 

Ambarys laughed. “You can never resist an old tomb, can you?”

“Shut up you swit.”

It was late at night. The caretaker of the burial hall had long since retired. The two unlikely allies broke in. They crouched low and found the hidden entrance. A door opened up, and they snuck their way in. 

“Why are you really helping me, Nord?” Arvel asked in the dim torch light.

Thorald was at a loss. Slowly though, he found his words. Hesitantly, he stepped off into a new path in the tomb. “I suppose you won’t believe me, but I don’t really know. I’ve had a strange few weeks. I escaped from a Thalmor prison because a passing band of Snow-Elves freed me. After all that, and with Ulfric spouting fire at the slightest provocation, I decided that I don’t think I can really be a Stormcloak anymore.” 

“So what, you decide that now that your racist lord might kill you in the crossfire, it’s time to jump ship?

Thorald was angry for a moment, but realized that Arvel’s words had some truth. “I was wrong about him, about everything, really.” 

Arvel had to laugh. “Yeah, no shit.” 

A sarcophagus rumbled to life behind them. They both swiftly turned and drew their swords. Arvel raised his finely crafted shield. The two trespassers expected a draugr, but instead a mist curled out and filled the room. 

Arvel swung through the white thick fog fruitlessly. “If I die in this crypt I will haunt you forever, Thorald Gray-prick.” 

Thorald swung his axe in a similar manner. “Your shield is made from skyforged steel. Forged by Eorlund Gray-prick himself! Show some respect!” 

A long dead voice spoke once more. “ _Fus!”_

Arvel and Thorald were thrown back into the opposite wall. Slowly they rose to see the mist take form.

Thorald was amazed. The ghost had the same ice-colored and pointed ears as his liberator. “I’m not the only one seeing this am I?” He said, worried he had hit his head too hard.

“No, it’s not just you. What in Oblivion is an elf ghost doing down here?” Arvel rubbed his bruised jaw. 

Words that fought tirelessly to crawl their way out from thousands of years of death and despair arrived in their ears. “I am Niribor, your teacher... Arvel.” 

Arvel scoffed and muttered, “Arngeir, you crazy old man. How do you have so many gifts?” 


	22. The Ebony Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irileth forms a plan to avenge her fallen friend and protect his children. She visits Nelkir in the Dragonsreach dungeons. Her past does not remain buried, and out of the embers she draws a weapon to save Whiterun from certain doom.

The young boy sat crossed-legged in his cell, serving a sentence for a crime he did not commit. Nelkir had often explored the dungeons of Dragonsreach, but now he wanted nothing more than to escape. A quiet thought in his head wondered if he would ever grow old. 

But how could he ever be free? He was no good with a blade, at least not yet. Every guard, witless as they may be, could pick him up with almost one hand, scrawny as he was. The whispering door had told him much, but she clearly had betrayed him. The damn voice, it had all been false! She gave him no warning as the new Jarl’s men grabbed him in the night, yanking him from his warm bed and peaceful sleep. So much for her power and wisdom. Now he heard nothing, save the idiotic wisecracking of his cruel captors. 

The days dragged on. In truth, it was the complete boredom that tormented him the most. He did not grieve much for his father’s death, but it had taken him by surprise. Ultimately, his mind just needed something, anything, to distract itself. 

With a loose bit of stone he drew on his cell floor. At first he drew dragons, beasts, and mountains. Fantastical maps and imaginary places. Once the world was complete, he decided to draw the dungeons and cellars of Dragonsreach from memory, idly planning a desperate escape. He would sit idle no longer, stuck in his own family’s prison. 

A few times he wondered how his supposed siblings, cast from a different mother, were faring. Had they been taken as well? Surely they threatened Hrongar’s rule, though he could not altogether blame his uncle for taking them as harmless. Frothar, his ice-brained half-brother, could be effectively distracted and neutralized by a toy wooden sword. Dagny, his half-sister, was at least aware that she had power as the child of a Jarl, but she wasn’t anywhere near the schemer that he was.

He had to congratulate his uncle on the deception. Clearly Whiterun was at least cautiously willing to accept that the Jarl’s strange son had killed his father. Nelkir’s hatred for Balgruuf was well known. He saw how the servants and townspeople looked at him. He was the demon child, cursed and best-avoided. He didn’t mind, he liked being alone, but it didn’t help his case then when he was framed for the murder. He had no one to protect him.

But then a voice came from beyond and broke the silence. It sounded just like the whispering door. 

“Nelkir, it’s me, Irileth.” She said from just beyond the iron cell bars. She was hardly visible in the halls of the dark prison. 

“Are you my executioner?” He said, with a strong voice. 

“No, I am a friend. I know you didn’t do this.” She crouched down and stood close.

He always liked that she didn’t talk down to him. She was the only one in his father’s household who didn’t treat him like a cursed child. "You don't blame me for his death? I know you loved him." 

"I _know_ you didn't do this." She repeated, with a voice of steel. 

“Then why _are_ you here?”

“I don’t think children should die for their uncle’s crimes.” 

“So they do plan to kill me?”

“Hrongar insists that it be so, but most of the townsfolk have their doubts.”

“They don’t think I could do it?”

She paused. “They usually don't believe in killing children."

He crossed his arms. "I am nearly a man."

"Lucky for you, you aren't yet, or else you would have been killed long ago."

The boy laughed, for a short moment. He looked around his cell. "Where are Dagny and Frothar?"

"They were sent to Solitude, to stay with the High-Queen. They are safe, at least for the moment."

The boy stared at the cold stone floor of his cell. “Can you get me out of here?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

Their voices were so similar. He knew he could tell her. “There’s a door in the basement, behind the servant’s quarters. Inside there is a whispering lady. She knows lots of secrets. Maybe she can help you.”

Irileth exhaled. “So you’ve met her?” 

Suddenly the boy didn’t feel so alone. He smiled, softly. 

She knew the way. She had been to that hidden room once before. It was deep within Dragonsreach and cleverly disguised. 

Her past was one of the secrets that she kept from Balgruuf. She buried it under the ash-fall of Mother Morrowind, when she fled the Red Year. Now, she had to painfully dig it back up to avenge her Jarl and save his son. 

She didn’t need a key, for she knew the lady behind the door. 

A chill gripped the dusty air. The lady spoke. “Irileth… I’ve long awaited for you to come back to me. Your thread has proven most interesting of late.” 

“I go with the wind. It took me here.” Irileth replied. 

“And I am wind.” 

Irileth closed her eyes. “And I am the storm.”

The lady laughed. With a pleasant, disarming sound, the door opened. A small ancient inscription laid before a bloody blade on a pedestal. The weapon was the color of midnight and a stomped out campfire, living on in embers. 

The inscription read: “To anyone reading this: BEWARE THIS BLADE. It has corrupted and perverted the desires of great men and women. Yet its power is without equal -- to kill while your victim smiles at you. Only a daedra most foul could have concocted such a malevolent and twisted weapon. It is not to be trifled with. Not even the hottest fires of the Skyforge could melt it; indeed the coals themselves seemed to cool when it was placed within. We cannot destroy it, and we would not have it fall into the hands of our enemies. So we keep it, hidden, dark and deep within Dragonsreach, never to be used. Woe be to any who choose to take it.”

“I have a question of fate.” Irileth asked the whispering lady of the room.

“Speak, child.” The lady answered. 

She thought of Arvel. “Will I survive this?” 

“That depends on the speed and skill of your sword arm.”

Irileth grasped The Ebony Blade. She felt the universe flow into her body. It was a dance of webs and deadly strings. She found Hrongar’s string, and pulled.


	23. Hirn Hettir Gor Navin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aela the Huntress tracks down the leaders of the Silver Hand, the cruel werewolf hunters, to the woods of Falkreath. There she meets the fearsome white-wolf, a former member of her pack. They join forces against their common enemy.

The night Huntress, proud wolf-beast of the two moons and master of battle, prowled through the dense forests of Falkreath hold, running down a prey that would not bloody relent. 

The fur on the back of her beast neck twitched as she moved out of the Whiterun plains, bound for her journey to the south. She had known she would not be welcome, but honor and rage, black and true, demanded she go. Silently, she stepped through the leaves, though she knew it would only delay her inevitable meeting with the master of these woods. 

The Silver Hand, cruel and twisted wolf-hunters, without care for justice or humanity, had killed her mate, Skjor the blood-red wolf. They would have skinned him too for his prized colored pelt, had not she not arrived and slaughtered them. Some still lived, and they fled for their lives while she had grieved for her Skjor. 

She was a woman of action and honor. No one, not dragon or beast, could stop her chase, or her claws, from reaching the cowardly necks of the Silver Hand leaders. The self-righteous murderer-hunters ran into the misty green wood of southern Skyrim, unknowingly covering themselves with a near-forgotten cloak. 

But Aela the Huntress remembered. No werewolf moved through the trees of Falkreath, not anymore at least. They feared a beast as white as snow, master of this place, and wished to honor a contract made with him long ago. 

The woods were bright and brilliant to Aela, even though it was the dead of night. It was as if Hircine himself had blessed the forest, with powerful green leaves and beautiful clear blue water running through the streams. Through the dreamlike wonder of Falkreath, the forest of the dead, Aela could easily see her Silver-Hand prey. They stuck out like an obsidian-black obelisk in an empty field. These cruel men would soon be dead. 

In the small hours of the morning, she finally caught up to them. They had foolishly made a campsite to rest. It would be their doom. 

But before Aela could descend upon them, ripping each man limb from limb, the white-wolf appeared, as silent as a tomb, out of the corner of her eye. As fast as a whisper, he was no longer a beast, but a man. He was a Nord as tall as Tsun, Huscarl of Shor himself, and had arms that could crush any shield. His head bore familiar marks, a long white beard and flowing wave of icy hair. 

“So this is why these hunters invade my home. The wolves of Jorrvaskr have finally ventured away from their warm hall?” The wolf turned man asked. 

Aela, still in her powerful wolf form, entertained thoughts of killing the man. She knew it was within her power, and he had certainly wronged her so many times in the past, but she held her claws at bay. A common enemy laid in front of them, lives waiting for the taking. “This is a matter of honor, of which I’m sure you know nothing. But perhaps you’ll understand this, they killed Skjor. They need to die for their crimes.” 

The man scratched his beard and stared at their still sleeping prey. He remembered long hunts, laughter, and good mead. “I thought Skjor would never die.” 

“We all did.” 

The man spoke a prayer in a tongue only a handful of people on Nirn knew. It was the language of the wolves. The speech sounded to the untrained ear like a howl riding distant thunder. “ _Hirn hettir gor navin._ ”*

Aela replied. Perhaps the man still had some honor left. “ _Hirn hettel gor sovel_.”

“Then let's kill them, as they sleep. They think they are strong and right, but they are neither.” The man said. 

The two wolves descended upon the hunters, leaving a bloody field in Hircine's sacred forest. 

Arnbjorn, the white wolf, returned to the last sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood, blood covering his mighty hands. Astrid, his wife and leader of their small band of assassins, was not surprised. Often he came home from his hunts dirty and blood-covered, but she saw the look in his pale eyes, this one was different. 

“How was your hunt?” She asked, curiously.

He sighed as the powers of nature rumbled off his powerful shoulders. “I met one of my former pack-mates. Turns out we were after the same prey.” 

Astrid knew of the pact. “They are not to venture into your forest.”

“It was a matter of honor. Our prey killed Skjor... one of the only fellow wolves I actually liked.”

“I see.” Astrid knew of his honor, and respected it. She loved him for it. 

“It has been a strange day.” He said, embracing Astrid in a tight hug. She needed it, for she too had news. 

“The Night Mother is here. That crazy jester, who’s apparently her keeper, brought her here.” She said.

Arnbjorn rolled his eyes. “I fucking hate jesters.”

“As do I, Husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The wolf language is just something I came up with, no cannon sources to it or anything. It has its origins in old Atmoran and the Dragon Tongue, and originates from when humans first came to Tamriel. It is designed so that only one cursed with lycanthropy can speak it, and it sounds like incomprehensible animal muttering and howls to an untrained ear. 
> 
> A rough translation:  
> "Hirn hettir gor navin." - "Hircine honors you in battle."   
> "Hirn hettel gor sovel." - "Hircine leads you in death."  
> \- An ancient funeral rite, that requires two lycanthropes to speak the words and seal the fate of the deceased, leading them to the glorious hunting grounds of the Daedra Hircine.


	24. Thousand Nights of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvel learns many lessons from the Falmer ghost beneath Windhelm, Niribor. He and Thorald reach an impasse and part ways. Arvel recovers an ancient and forgotten fang. Thorald learns of the quickly approaching Stormcloak attack on Whiterun.

“What’s your story, spirit?” Arvel asked the Snow-Elf ghost that dwelled in Windhelm’s Crypt. 

“How can I tell a story I don’t know? What year is it, mer?” The ghost who called itself Niribor replied. 

“The fourth age, year 401.” Arvel said.

Niribor’s visage blinked. “I did not know there had been more than one age.” 

There was a long, awkward silence. “Shit.” Thorald Gray-Mane muttered involuntarily, revealing his true thoughts. “He must have died during the wars of Ysgramor.”

“You mean the one where the Nords killed all the Snow Elves they could find?” Arvel asked even though he already knew the answer. He gave Thorald a look. 

“Yeah… that’s the one.” Thorald cautiously spoke as he realized what that meant. 

“I don’t remember my death. After countless years of rest, it is difficult to remember anything.” The ghost said. 

“Then how did you know my name?” Arvel pointed to himself.

“You carry the voice with you, do you not?” 

“What does that have to do with it?” 

Niribor spoke slowly and deliberately. He pondered each word and conjured immense effort to release them. His speech was stilted, as if his once living throat, long since sundered, had never encountered modern Tamrielic, or even the ancient elvish of Aldmeris. Once he was living, but now he was more magicka than mer. 

He let loose his heavy voice into the dark room. “I was once a teacher of the old tongue. Of that much, I am certain. I know your name because my soul desperately searches for one final student and I cannot rest without completing my duty. But before we can begin, I must ask, for my spirit still holds some width. How did you find me?”

Arvel suddenly could feel a fraction of the weight that this ghost held. “The speaker of the Greybeards, Arngeir, gave me a map to find you. They tried to teach us so we could fight the dragons, but we didn’t learn fast enough. Alduin came, and destroyed the temple.”

Thorald put his head in his hands. “So it’s true. Ulfric wasn’t just lying about that. The end times are really here?”

“It is not the end until the end.” Niribor reached out two ghostly arms, surrounding them, warmly. 

Arvel sighed. “Arngeir said perhaps the world is meant to die.” 

“Many things that are meant to happen, don’t.” Niribor’s face smiled. “There will be time for laments, man and mer, but that time is not now. Now it is time… time for action, and for justice.” 

Arvel’s gravel soaked voice, deep like a resting bear in his lungs, stirred awake. “What do you mean?”

“This is your task, my student. Deeper within this tomb lies more secrets that Ysgramor wished to bury, more things he stole and corrupted. Find the dagger I long ago wielded, still proudly wedged in an Atmoran’s heart. It’s blade is made of bone and fire. When you have found this blade, you will have learned much of how to defeat the dragons.” 

He did not have to consider it for long. Tomb raiding was his profession after all. “Well then point the way, spirit. I will do this.” Arvel said.

The ghost silently pointed down a dust drowned hallway that sloped down into the heart of the earth. 

Arvel started down the path, but Thorald firmly grasped his arm and blocked his way with fire in his eyes. “What are you thinking! The things down there were buried for a reason! You can not trust this ghost! Who knows what its intentions are?”

The two engaged in a shouting match. “Frankly, I don't care! I need things to defeat Alduin with, so that I can go back to my much more enjoyable life of stealing from you, drinking, and minding my own damn fucking business. You should do the same, Nord.”

“Look I feel for this spirit, trust me I do. But don’t you know of the Night of Tears? Don’t you think it wise to at least consider the consequences here?” 

Arvel laughed at the naive Nord. He vented his rage. “Ha! Consequences? That’s fucking rich coming from you. You’ve had one night of tears, the Falmer, the Dunmer, the Reachmen, they’ve all had so many fucking thousands of those nights. I am doing this. So either get the fuck outta my way or by Dagon’s asshole I will cut you down!” 

For a moment the two stood there, locked. Finally, the Nord backed away. 

“Go back to guarding your insane lord, Thorald. It’s where you belong.” Arvel walked down the tunnel.

Thorald Gray-Mane looked to the spirit, still hovering there in the tomb. 

“Will he die in there?” Thorald asked. 

The elven ghost answered. “You should worry about your own soul first, son of Atmora.” 

Arvel snuck past coffin after coffin of fallen Nordic warriors. The mountains of blood that were spilled to conquer Skyrim. 

Finally, high up on a dark and long forgotten altar, laid another dead dead man. He wore ancient armor and his draugered body still held a mighty red beard. Directly in his heart, just as Niribor described, was a still bloody dagger. It was barely even a blade, more like a massive tooth ripped from its former owner, with a simple leather bound hilt. 

“Well, here goes nothing.” 

He grabbed hold of the hilt and pulled. As the fang came out, a rush of blood older than most living things exploded out of the wound. The blood covered the draugr’s body, and slowly ate it, dissolving the corpse into ash.

Even with his untrained eye, Arvel could feel the power of the blade. It was still incredibly sharp after all these years and didn’t bear a single mark of age. It was as if the dagger was from outside time itself, just waiting for someone to hold it again. 

He returned to Niribor, dagger in his hand. 

“You are a worthy student, Arvel. I will teach you the word _ Kest,  _ meaning Tempest. It will guide you in your pursuit of the dragons.” 

“What about the blade?”

“It brings some memories to my soul. I thank you for recovering it. It once was the fang of an ancient golden dragon. I wielded it in battle. The Atmorans took it, along with everything else from me. They paid for the crime in the form of as many lives as I could brutally end. In a misplaced sense of honor for my valor, they buried me here with their great warriors. I forever had to sleep with the people I killed.”

“There were a lot of coffins down there.”

“Indeed… please, use that fang well. Bring it to the throat of the people that stole this land. Bring it down upon the dragons that threaten to end existence.”

“I appreciate your gifts, Niribor.” Arvel did a slight, awkward bow.

“There’s no need to thank me. You have eased my eternity of silent vigil and restless sleep.” The ghost faded into the stone of the tomb. 

The two Nords watched over the training yard in the Palace of Kings, speaking in Old Atmoran. 

“It is good you are here this morning, Thorald. The apprentices are progressing well.” 

Thorald feigned his loyalty as it faltered and shattered through him. “That is good to hear, my King.”

Ulfric Stormcloak pointed to the firebrand tongue who viciously fought against poor sparing mates in the yard below. “You will tell Ragnar of Whiterun’s defenses.”

A storm brewed in Thorald’s heart. “Excuse me?”

“He will lead our Tongues into battle, along with Galmar and a strong detachment of our warriors, of course. We will liberate your city within two weeks time, my friend. Do not worry, the Imperial stench on that hold will soon be purged.”

Thorald knew what that meant. Many innocents would die. Another night of tears. “As you command… my Lord. I would like to go with them, if you’d allow it.”

Ulfric put a powerful arm over his shoulder. “I worry you may not hold in your duty in the face of your childhood home, but I understand your fire. I will go as far as the Southern Pale, accompanying the army to inspire their hearts. You may come with me, in your duty of Huscarl.”

Thorald bowed and plotted. “Thank you.” 


	25. Inhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe inhales before the final plunge into the abyss. Everything stands on the tip of a knife. The wind challenges the honor of the time-god.

The Planets, God-makers of Mundus, sat around the time-dragon’s throne once more. They were anxious, an unpleasant feeling for Gods. 

“Crimes have been committed that can not be allowed.” The wind said, speaking for herself for the first time ever. She spoke with a wave, a shout of thunder, and the roar of a bear. 

Father time did not stir, even as his children killed each other. Even as his son begged for forgiveness. 

“Is nothing sacred anymore? Have you no spine under those golden scales?” She said. 

Time did not move. The rest did not move, though some wished they had the will and strength. Discontent stirred in the highest court of the universe. 

“They have stolen your blood and mantle. Fight for it and remind me why I serve.”

The dragon turned his beautiful hulking head towards the wind.

“Finally.”

The dragon spoke. A golden flood filled the throne as the dragon rose its cosmic wings to fly. “I do not do this for you. The Fate has already been decided. I only rise because the manner of the ending-doom is not correct.” 


	26. Granite Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A war council is held between Jarl Hrongar and Legate Rikke in the border town of Granite Hill. During the meeting Hrongar is twisted by fate and Irileth rises to rally Whiterun's warriors.

Mephala, the Daedric Prince of devious plots and fowl spiders, stood back and admired the web she had meticulously woven, each string a life and soul that would soon be forever changed. How easy it was to guide mortals and bend them. Her whim was their profound destiny. 

Through the quill and steel voice of General Tullius, commander of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim, she sent Legate Rikke to Irileth, to the perfect place and at the perfect time. Through Ulfric Stormcloak’s fiery breath she sent Tancred, the dedicated Nordic Huscarl, to complete a dirty and fatal task. 

A war council, brief and grim, was being held in the border town of Granite Hill. It rested, waiting like a warm ember, near the crossroads of Whiterun, The Reach, and the woods of Falkreath. 

The new Jarl of Whiterun, Hrongar, and his mighty retinue came, seeking to formalize an alliance with the Empire against Ulfric’s rebels. A wolf's howl of ambition stirred in Jarl Hrongar’s gut. This was to be his magnificent stepping stone. He would victoriously lead the other Jarls, weak-spined as they were, to victory against Ulfric. After the war was won, they would have no choice but to name him High-King. Elisif the Fair, Widow-Queen of Skyrim, would not stop his rise. 

Irileth spoke the right words in the right ears, and secured her place in Hrongar’s company as a lowly guard. She traveled in the back of their caravan with the rest of the rank and file soldiers and swords for hire, but she did not mind. There she waited for the right moment, with the Ebony Blade thirsty for blood. Mephala, the Spider Queen, could not wait to see the show. 

A young battle-bard traveled with them. He was a young Nord, green to battle and to life. He wore bright blonde hair, a fair grin, and a patch of faint stubble on his chin. Irileth knew him only by name and reputation. He was Jon Battle-Born, second son of the powerful Battle-Born clan of Whiterun. They were known throughout Skyrim as loyal supporters of the Empire.

He moved his horse to walk alongside Irileth. He smiled at the open blue sky. “Kyne has blessed us with a fair journey.”

She did not mind his attempt at small talk, but wondered why he had even come along on this important diplomatic journey. But she didn’t really belong either. “We haven’t reached our destination yet. I will hold my praise until we do.”

“A fair point. Storms can appear on these plains within minutes.”

“I was more worried about the dragons.”

He laughed. “I do not worry! You are here. Surely with your skill and our band of warriors, we can fend off any of those flying horrors.” 

“They do not always fly alone, and killing a dragon is easier said than done.”

The smile slowly faded away from his face. “Well, the more the merrier. That would make for a far better song I expect.”

Irileth had to ask. “Why are you here, Battle-Born? Surely not to write songs about me killing dragons.”

Jon smiled again. “Ah, well. It is quite an honor you see. Someone needs to record the great deeds of our Jarl, and luckily the Gods have blessed me with the honor of being the record-taker.” 

Irileth made a sly grin. “And what do your records say of our Jarl’s rise to the throne?”

“It is a tragic tale of patricide and betrayal. What drives a young son to kill his loving father?” 

She looked Jon dead in the eye. “I do not believe all parts of that tale. You should aim to be truthful, bard.” 

He did not break his stare as they neared Granite Hill’s gates. “Honor demands that I seek out the truth of the matter. I would have it no other way.” 

The two parties met in the town hall, a compact and stout stone keep. Legate Rikke was flanked by a heavily armored band of seasoned Imperial Legionaries. Many Stormcloaks, and even some Thalmor, had ended their storied lives at the tips of their swords. 

Across the feast hall was Hrongar and his trusted advisers and warriors. Irileth was stationed far away, outside guarding the horses. She and her Ebony Blade yearned for murder. A familiar woman’s voice whispered “not yet.”

The night dragged on. Rikke and Hrongar could not yet come to an accord. Hrongar wanted to squeeze the Empire for as many legionaries as he could. Rikke was wisely hesitant to send men to their deaths, as she always was. Finally the two retired to their camps.

Now was Irileth’s chance. She stole into Hrongar’s inner ring of tents just outside the town. None of his guards could detect the presence of a Morag Tong and the only one in Whiterun’s band who could detect a real assassin was her. She silently laughed at her switched roles. She flowed through Hrongar’s defenses like she was dancing with the wind. 

Finally she reached Hrongar’s inner bedchamber, thirsty blade in hand. 

But she was too late, the Jarl was already dead. Perhaps she got rusty. She looked up and saw a young Nord with fire in his heart fleeing the scene. Running away, the deed already done, the man abandoned his caution. The man was brave, but still did not know the arts of quick and silent stealth as well as Irileth. The guards spotted him, shouting to raise the alarm. Irileth chased him down, recognizing the subtlety of Mephala’s gifts. 

Tancred, boxed in the middle of Hrongar’s tent circle, drew his sword and prepared to make a last stand. He would die weapon in hand. He was a man with an overeagerness for death and Sovngarde. 

Irileth flew at him with the Ebony Blade. Tancred could barely see it as it swung through the shadows of night. He immediately was set on the defensive. He blocked one swing, and then another. He would not meet a third. 

A circle of Whiterun guards looked on as Irileth drove her blade through the neck of the Stormcloak assassin. Tancred’s head fell to her feet. 

One of the guards emerged in a panic from Hrongar’s tent. “The Jarl is dead!” 

In the morning the council met again, emboldened with a far darker tone. Legate Rikke buried her face into her heavy calloused hands. “Damn Ulfric! He speaks of honor but uses an assassin’s blade more than even the bloody Thalmor.” 

What was left of Hrongar’s party was in disarray. News was coming in that the Stormcloaks were gathering to attack Whiterun. But they were left leaderless and broken. Rikke’s comrades advised her to leave the city to its fate. 

Finally Irileth was let inside the room. 

“Who is this?” Rikke asked.

One of the guard’s spoke up. “She was Balgruuf’s Huscarl, and she killed the Stormcloak assassin.”

Rikke crossed her arms. “How does one let a child kill your Jarl?” 

“I was not there. Balgruuf tasked me with fighting the dragons, and that’s still what I intend to do.”

The Legate was surprised. “That’s an honorable task.”

Irileth knew what she had to do. “I’m glad you think so, Legate, but I can’t do that while Whiterun lies in ruin. Ulfric and the Dragons are one in the same. They rise to turn the world into ash. That is why I must defend Whiterun and her people. I will not abandon them again. Give us as many Legionnaires you can spare and I will give you Ulfric’s greatest defeat.”

“Those are strong words, Huscarl. You mean to lead? Who would follow you? You are not their Jarl.”

Almost all of Hrongar’s warriors, many of whom had served with Irileth for years under the rule of Balgruuf, rose their swords and shouted, “We will follow her.” They saw her wield the great Ebony Blade to defeat the assassin and knew she was a fighter worth following. 

Irileth’s heart swelled with love and pride. “Whiterun is my home. I will not leave it to burn.”

Rikke nodded. “Then you will have your legionaries.” 

Mephala twisted her web and laughed in Irileth's ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Granite Hill was a town intended to appear in Skyrim but was cut from the final game. It also appears in Arena.


End file.
